Figmentum
by thimbles
Summary: Figmentum: 1. figment, fiction, invention, unreality; 2. thing formed, devised; 3. image. She coaxes him into existence with every word she writes. What will Bella do when she finds herself falling in love with the main character in her latest novel?
1. Chapter 1

**Figmentum.**

**Figmentum: **_**1. figment, fiction, invention, unreality; 2. thing formed, devised; 3. image.**_** She coaxes him into existence with every word she writes. What will Bella do when she finds herself falling in love with the main character in her latest novel?**

* * *

**Chapter One.**

_There are two kinds of loneliness. _

_Well, perhaps there are more, but there are two kinds with which I've become all too intimate with in the last few months._

_The first—it's bittersweet, wistful, fleeting. The kind of loneliness you feel when two of your closest friends post pictures to Facebook of the two of them having a ball—without you. It's a little childish and you know it. Envious and petty. It's tempered by your delight in seeing the people you love giddy-happy. You love to see them smiling, but you're hurt you're not included in their joy. It's temporary—you know that they haven't suddenly decided to exclude you forever. Next time, it's more than likely your face will also be framed in an Instagram shot, smiley and prettier than you really are—those fucking filters blend away a multitude of blemishes._

_The other kind of loneliness is bone-deep and hurts like nothing else. It's the loneliness that starts in your chest, heavy and throbbing, and radiates outward. It squeezes the air from your lungs and pushes gasping sobs from your throat. It sets your ears to ringing, makes your fingertips numb, and coils your belly into painful knots._

_It's the kind I'm trying to stave off right now, desperate to push it from my consciousness. It's a futile exercise, though. This feeling is one that won't be ignored._

_It's the loneliness that has you waking with your pillow streaked black, as yesterday's mascara is purged from your lashes by silent tears. The tears fall easily, slipping down your face with no effort, pushed out by the overflow of sorrow that holds your heart in its fist. They're stubborn tears—they won't listen to reason or logic. They fall where they will, when they will—with no regard for the people in the café who observe you with detached concern or mild disgust._

_This is the loneliness that wants one person—just one—to see you; to see your soul and recognize it; to see your tears and wipe them from your face, knowing you don't need to be told you're being ridiculous and illogical. It's the loneliness that you feel even as your boyfriend of over two years sweats and swears above you, his face twisted with the pleasure that he's drawing from your body. The loneliness that knows, even as your own climax washes over you, that no amount of physical pleasure can replace what you're truly searching for—someone who touches your soul, who leaves his fingerprints on the very fabric of your person and changes you, completes you, brings you home._

* * *

Ernest Hemingway said, "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."

I reread the words my fingers have just bled across the keyboard, frowning. I'm not sure I was even aware of these feelings until I sat down and started typing. I try to look at the words objectively, seeking out any pretentiousness, any disingenuousness. I shake my head. I'm not sure I can remove myself from them sufficiently to judge their worth at this point.

Maybe they'll look different in the morning. I save again, an impulse borne of fear of losing my words, of having my rambles lost into the abyss of malfunctioning technology.

"Bella?"

"Hmm."

I close a few more browser windows, and click refresh on my email account, sighing in frustration when I see three more emails from Jacob. I ignore them for now—I'll deal with him in the morning. He's not going to want to hear what I've got to say anyway.

"Bella!" I'm startled when Jasper's hand appears in front of my screen, blocking my view of the email from a teenaged fan that I just opened.

"What's up, honey?" I twist my neck to look up at him.

His blue eyes are flat, his lips pressed thin. I watch the skin of his throat flush red.

"Are you planning on coming to bed?"

I glance at the clock in the corner of the screen—it's almost one in the morning.

"Oh yeah, sorry. I'll be there in a few minutes. I just need to –"

"Just need to what, Bella? Write a few more pages, send a few more emails, do a bit more research?"

"Well –"

"For fuck's sake. Can I just have your attention for one night?"

"What do you mean?" I frown up at him. "I spent all afternoon and evening with you. I mean, we just had sex like, two hours ago. I thought you'd be asleep by now."

He spits the words through gritted teeth. "How can I sleep when all I can hear is you tap tap tapping away out here?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I can move. Do you want me to take the laptop into the kitchen?"

"No, Bella. I don't want you to take the laptop into the kitchen."

I tilt my head. "What can I do, honey? What do you need?"

"You're fucking kidding, aren't you? How many times are we going to have this conversation? That fucking laptop gets more of your time than I do."

I fight back the urge to sigh or roll my eyes. We have had this argument far too often as of late. Instead, I listen impassively as his voice gets louder, my eyes on the muscles in his jaw as they flex and jump.

"You're on it when I wake up, you're on it when I get home from meetings. No matter what time of the day it is, I know I'll walk in the door to find you staring at a screen. I mean, fuck, Bella—we have sex and you go to 'clean up,' and two hours later you still haven't come back to bed. Because you're out here, lost in your own fucking world."

I say nothing in my defense. I can't be bothered to have this argument again.

Instead, I opt for placation. "I'm sorry. I'll just close all this stuff down."

I save my work, again, and shut down my email client. Closing the laptop lid, I smile at Jasper tentatively. He doesn't return it, spinning on his heel and storming back towards our—_my_—bedroom.

I flick off the lights as I follow him.

In our bedroom, he's already under the covers, his back turned. His unruly sun-bleached curls sprawl across the navy blue pillowcase. It's a sight that used to make me smile, my sweet man curled up in my bed.

I shake my head and pull a flannel shirt on. The days are still warm as fall creeps in, but the nights are getting too frigid for my usual tank top and shorts.

I shiver a little as I slide under the covers, my skin prickling into goose bumps. If I was in the right frame of mind, this—the physical manifestation of the cold shoulder I'm currently receiving—would amuse me. It's something I'd write into one of my stories.

My feet rub against the cotton-smooth sheets, trying to create warmth through friction. When they brush against Jasper's calf, I frown a little. His side of the bed is cozy and warm—and not from his body heat.

Huh.

Jasper's half of the electric blanket is on. Right. He didn't switch mine on. Fine. Point taken. I try not to let it eat at me—I should have turned it on myself earlier.

I reach over and switch my bedside lamp off, trying not to disturb the wobbly tower of books balanced on the nightstand.

In the darkness, it's harder to fight the corrosive feelings bubbling inside me. Resentment churns in my gut; it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. We've been arguing about my writing almost daily. Well, in truth, it's not so much my writing as it is my singular focus once I'm settled in front of a screen full of words.

I've been this way for as long as I can remember. The written word captures my attention, and once I'm writing, or reading, it's very difficult to break through my concentration. I can read with the television blaring, with music playing, and through explosion-and-gunfire-laden video-gaming.

As a child, I would sit in the playground at break, my nose in a book, oblivious to the chatter and laughter of my peers as they ran and jumped and played and carried on. My parents had to ban books at the dinner table, for I would simply read right through meals.

As an adult, little has changed. If anything, years of reading on public transport, and writing my first novel in a crowded café, have made my concentration even more impermeable.

The problem is that I will also read and/or write right through any conversation being directed at me. Once I'm "in the zone," calling my name might elicit a "Yeah?" but I'm almost certainly not hearing a word that's being said. Spoken words simply cannot compete with those written on a page or screen.

Jasper used to find it amusing—cute, even. He would boast about me to his friends, like I was some kind of genius—brilliant but a little detached from reality. He even learned early in our relationship to touch my shoulder, to wait until I made eye contact with him before he spoke to me. And he seemed happy enough to cater to this quirk of mine.

The last few months though, he's become increasingly frustrated when I don't immediately drop everything and focus on him. I'm trying. I really am. I understand that having to call my name over and over must be infuriating for him. I just … well, I don't know _how_ to change. How do I force myself to _not_ engage so deeply, to concentrate less, to keep part of my brain on alert on the off chance he wants to speak to me?

I sigh and roll over, tugging the comforter up around my chin and burying my face in my pillow. I shake my head, trying to dispel the bitter thoughts.

I'm beginning to suspect that the only way I can make Jasper happy would be to simply cease reading and writing altogether when he's at home. Given that we both work from home, however, it's just not going to happen.

An uncomfortable truth settles on me, a weight of guilt pressing down on my chest. It pushes the air from my lungs in a big whoosh of breath.

If he forces me to choose—I will always choose words.

* * *

I wake early. Despite the late night and the difficulty I had falling asleep, I'm strangely alert. Beside me, Jasper is still lost in his dreams, his eyelashes fluttering, his lips slightly parted, his long, tanned limbs sprawled across the bed. I wonder if he's unwell, it's almost seven o'clock, and he's still deeply asleep. I press the back of my hand to his forehead—he's sleep-warm, but definitely not fever-hot.

For a second, I contemplate crawling beneath the blankets and waking him in a manner guaranteed to put him in a good mood. It feels manipulative though, so I climb out of bed and slide on some sweat pants and a thick pair of socks. They're too big, the wooly toes hanging past my own and flap-flapping across the wood floors.

The espresso machine is already on, thanks to the timer switch. I dump some fresh beans into the grinder hopper. I yawn, the back of my hand moving to cover my mouth. I flick the grinder on, cringing a little at its noisy rattling, and immerse myself in the familiar routine of dialing in the machine. Grind, dose, distribute, tamp, lock, load.

The first shot pours from the portafilter spouts too quickly—I don't even need to taste it to know that it's under-extracted. I set the grind a little finer and repeat the process.

It takes me four tries to get the espresso dripping like honey from the spouts. The crema looks thick, and is nicely tiger-flecked. I take a careful sip, sighing as the flavor explodes in my mouth. The blend is simple, but stunning. There are floral top notes—jasmine and honeysuckle—and some vibrant berry flavors, underscored by dark chocolate and some kind of nut—hazelnut, perhaps?

Satisfied—and caffeinated—I start pulling the ingredients from the pantry and fridge to make raspberry buckwheat hotcakes.

I'm just flipping the thick, fluffy hotcakes onto plates when Jasper appears, looking sleepy and rumpled and kind of adorable.

"Morning, honey."

His voice is still thick with sleep. "Morning."

He takes the plate I hand him, nodding when I raise the bowl of rosemary-scented marscapone. I spoon some onto his plate and hand him the maple syrup. He kind of grunts in thanks, turning and shuffling toward the breakfast table.

I turn back to the espresso machine, pulling a double shot and steaming a pitcher of milk for his latté.

I set his coffee before him, smiling at his disheveled state, then grab my own plate and a glass of water and join him at the table.

My eyes wander over Jasper as he chews his breakfast. He hasn't shaved in a few days and his jaw is shaded with scruff. It almost looks ginger in the warm light pooling through the windows. His dirty blond curls are mashed against his skull on the right side of his head, and his right cheek still bears the creases of his pillow. His blue-eyed gaze is fixed on the window, out where the waves break against white sand. The creases around his eyes are deepening, sun and age lining his face.

The silence as we eat is heavy and thick, muting the low crash of the ocean and the fluttering of wind through the trees. Unsettled, I shift my gaze from Jasper, watching the sunlight dance its way across the balcony. His wetsuit is still slung across the rail where he left it yesterday, his board leaning beside it, cocooned in its silver insulation.

His plate emptied, Jasper stands and leaves the table wordlessly. I hear him clattering around as he stacks the dishwasher, then the dull thud of his footsteps as he makes his way back toward the bedroom.

I've finished my own breakfast, washed the pots and pans I dirtied, and am wiping down the counters when he reappears. He's shirtless, his board shorts low on his hips. I watch the muscles ripple across his sun-browned back as he pushes open the sliding doors and steps out on to the balcony.

He doesn't acknowledge me as he wriggles and squirms, sliding his body into the black neoprene of his wetsuit. He doesn't look back as pulls the cord and zips himself in, or as he unzips his board from its bag. He doesn't wave as he skips down the steps toward the beach, his surfboard tucked under his arm.

I watch him, my hand wiping unnecessary circles across the cold granite, as he jogs across the sand. I watch until he is just a small black dot bobbing up and down behind the breaking waves.

I look at my own swimsuit, their red and white stripes fluttering in the breeze where I pegged them yesterday afternoon. I chew the inside of my cheek as I consider following him into the surf.

Fuck it. If he wanted my company he would have asked for it.

Instead, I take a shower. As the steam swirls around me, cloaking me, I let my mind start to turn over the nagging questions I've been trying to ignore.

_What are we doing? How long can we maintain this tug of war? Arms aching, hands blistering, hearts rubbing raw as we jerk each other back and forth? _

_What does he want?_

_Hell, what do I want?_

I shake my head, tipping my face toward the rain of warming water.

I'm not sure I even know. If I've ever known.

Jasper and I always worked because things were easy.

An accidental friendship cultivated with the barefoot accountant who never seemed to set foot in an office, while I served him coffee in the summer between high school and college. An accidental relationship when a drunken party in our small beachside town found us waking hung-over and naked, the summer I came back home.

That he's ten years my senior never seemed to matter. A few friends raised their eyebrows, but were quickly appeased when they saw how easily we seemed to fit together.

Easy.

I'm not stupid; I know I've had it easy.

My first novel was picked up before I'd even finished my degree. Easy.

My grandparents left me their beachside bungalow when they bought a caravan and took off to explore the country for the few years left to them. Easy.

Jasper stayed one night and never went home. Easy.

Before twenty-two, I had independence: a home, a live-in boyfriend and a three-book contract. Easy.

Just past twenty-three, I find myself wishing that things had been a little harder.

I feel like I've been caught in life's riptide. I allowed myself to be carried along by it, letting its current propel me where it willed. But like a swimmer suddenly losing sight of the shore, I'm starting to realize it's dragging me out to a place I don't want to be. And I'm starting to fear I'll drown.

I shut off the shower, squeeze the water from the lengths of my hair, and cocoon myself in dark blue toweling.

I smooth my skin with milk-and-honey lotion, the sweet smell lingering in the warm, damp air as I perch on the cold ceramic of the bathtub.

I'm just walking into the bedroom when the bzzzzt-bzzzzt of my phone vibrating across the nightstand begins.

I reach for it, rolling my eyes. I answer and tuck it between my shoulder and ear as I turn to rifle through my drawer for some clean panties.

"Hi, Jacob."

His deep voice is like a rumbling snowball, gathering momentum as it races down a steep slope. "Hey, Bea. Listen, you haven't answered my emails and I really need to know what you're planning, and when I can expect the next one. And maybe just a bit of an idea of what you're planning on writing. Obviously, you're sticking to YA, but maybe it's time to shift your focus a little. Dystopian –"

"Whoa, Jake. Just hold on a second."

"Although, maybe you could –"

Frustration and anxiety course through me, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I cut him off with a shout, "Jacob!"

"What?"

"Just slow down, please." The shrill tone in my voice lingers.

Jacob must hear it. "Uh, have I caught you at a bad time? Are you okay? You sound …" He trails off, his voice coming to rest, finally.

I tell him "I'm fine," though I don't know if it's the truth. The phone still balanced in the crook of my neck, I slide the lace in my hands up my legs.

"Sorry, I got a bit carried away, huh?"

"Just a little."

"Right. Sorry." He chuckles. "So, anyway. Do you have anything concrete for me?"

I sit on the edge of the bed, my fingertips brushing across the cotton, picking absently at the little balls of fluff. "I want to do something different, Jake."

His groan-sigh is transmitted across the radio waves into my ear. As my brain decodes the sound, the anxiousness in my belly coils tighter. "Bea—"

"Look, Jacob. I just … I mean, I've never set out to write young adult books. I've just written some characters who happened to be teenagers. But I want to explore something different. I want to write some more mature characters –"

Jake sighs again. I can almost see him, rocking back in his black leather chair, his eyes on the ceiling as he considers my words.

"Have you got anything written?"

"Bits and pieces. I, uh, well—I've been plotting out a few ideas."

I imagine him rubbing his hand across the whiskers that shade his upper lip, his dark eyes closing in thought.

"All right, Bea. You gotta write whatever's taking hold of you. But—can you get me something by the end of the month? So I can see where you're heading, and start trying to figure out how I'm going to sell it to the big boss?"

A wave of relief washes over me. "Yeah, I'll see what I can do."

"Cool. I don't know, Bea. Just get me enough to get a feel for what you're trying to do."

"Okay. My fingers are itching, anyway. I should have something for you soon."

"Great. Okay. And, you know … should you have any more teenaged characters chattering away in your brain—let them speak."

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, yeah."

"Don't roll your eyes at me."

"I didn't."

"Bullshit. I can practically hear them squeaking in their sockets."

"Well, shit." I chuckle. "I guess I better find the WD-40."

Jake laugh-snorts. "Okay, okay. I've got more writers to harass, Bea. I'll be in touch."

"Bye."

I throw my cell phone on the mattress, and turn my head to look out over the ocean. There are about a dozen surfers out the back, black blobs bobbing as they wait for their waves. I watch one—it could be Jasper, it's impossible to tell from here, his arms working furiously to catch the wave. He jumps nimbly to his feet, the ocean taking hold of his board and propelling him toward the shore.

I think about the ocean, how it's in control of the surfers. They're not catching the waves, not really. The wave catches them, pushing them with its own agenda. Powerful. Inexorable. Eternally pushing its white cavalry forward and then sucking them back out to sea.

Air rushes from between my lips, fast and hard, then seeping softly as my lungs deflate. How long do I continue to ride this wave of my life? Do I let it propel me, hope for the shore? Or do I bail out—though I don't know what other dangers might be submerged beneath me?

I look at my hands, at the fading scratches criss-crossing them—scars from my epic battle with the briar rose that I helped Mom prune from her garden last weekend. There is a woman forming in my mind. _Rose._ _Rosie. Rosalie._ She, like her namesake, is beautiful, but fiercely self-protected.

_Why? What does she fear? _

I leave the room, gravitating toward my laptop—lying closed on the coffee table where I left it in the early hours of this morning.

My still-wet hair drips down my back as I wait for the computer to come alive.

"Rosalie." I say her name out loud, as if to conjure her presence, to have her materialize fully formed from the jumble of phrases piling up in my mind.

* * *

_As a rule, first love affairs almost always meet with disastrous ends, and first heartbreak almost always seems impossible to survive. After the dizzy heights of first love, plummeting back down to earth leaves the heart feeling battered and bruised, and loving again seems quite impossible._

_Rosalie Hale suspected she was not so different to many other young women—getting caught up in the heady intoxication of first love, or lust—only to have it all fall down around her. Promises broken, faithfulness abandoned, and love betrayed. She was left feeling as though her heart would never, ever recover, that she would carry this dull, throbbing ache between her lungs for as long as they continued to expand and fill with breath._

_But Rosalie, like those many other young women, found that she did, after all, continue to breathe, that life did go on—just as her mother promised it would, her age-wavered voice soothing in its crotchety tones as she stroked her daughter's flaxen hair. The steady trickle of time swept Rosalie along, and the blue-black marks on her heart began to yellow and fade._

_Rosalie watched the other young women—friends, colleagues, and sisters—noting their perpetual cycle of love and heartbreak. The gushing-gossip over new love, the teary-condemnation of love lost. The girls, whose giggling voices one month declared the latest boy-wonder "so perfect for you," were the same ones whose voices would shrill with bitter recriminations the next: "I never liked him anyway."_

_Disillusioned, Rosalie determined that unwavering, predictable loneliness was preferable to the rollercoaster highs and lows her friends were riding. And so, while she enjoyed the company of many young men, and even allowed a few into her bed, she was careful to clingwrap her heart, determined to keep it safe and fresh for such a time as she was ready to offer it—wholly, completely—to another._

* * *

"Could you please get off your fucking computer for a few minutes, and go put some fucking clothes on?"

Jasper's voice startles me out of Rosalie's mind, and I glance down at myself in surprise. I'm still wrapped in a towel, and my hair has dried into untamed spirals.

"When did you get back?" I ask, meeting his eyes nervously. Their blue is frosted over.

He shakes his head, his hands running through his damp curls. His voice is tight with frustration. "Half an hour ago. I've already showered and eaten lunch. We need to go in ten minutes." The ends of his words stamp a staccato beat, distracting me from their meaning.

His eyebrows rise when I fail to move. "Bella? We. Have. To. Go."

I feel my eyebrows contracting and my lips pursing. "Don't speak to me like that. I'm not a child."

"Then quit acting like one!"

I stand up, pulling the soft toweling close to my skin. My eyes are on my toes as I return to the bedroom, pulling clothes from their hangers at random.

I'm shimming the stretchy denim up my legs when Jasper's sigh travels across the room. He's leaning against the door jam, his arms folded across his chest. I watch the muscles jump and flex as his fists tighten.

"What?" I ask.

"You're going to wear jeans?"

I look at him blankly. "Is that a problem?"

I search through my brain, flipping quickly through the conversations we've had this week. I draw a blank. We're expected somewhere—I can't remember where—but it would seem jeans are not appropriate attire.

I raise my white flag. "Where are we going, J.J.?"

His eyebrow arches and his nostrils flare. "I knew you wouldn't remember."

His sneering sparks something in my gut. "Yeah, yeah, okay. Bella sucks and she forgets shit. Either tell me where we're going—and what would be deemed acceptable clothing—or just fucking go without me."

His mouth turns down, weighted with disapproval—he hates to hear me swear. "We're meeting Mom for afternoon tea."

I resist the urge to kick the closet door in frustration. Mrs. Whitlock's afternoon teas are legendary—for all the wrong reasons. People attend them only to avoid being the subject of the malicious stories that are spun in her airless living room.

I slide the jeans back down my legs, leaving them puddled on the floor. I find the lilac sundress Jasper gave me for my last birthday and pull it off its hanger. I glance at him in the mirror, but his eyes are on the cell phone in his hand, not my naked form.

Six months ago, a wiggle of my hips was all it would take for him to have me pressed against the mattress, his hands greedy, his mouth devouring mine. Lately, though, he seems to have lost interest in that side of our relationship. He never makes the first move, and only responds to perhaps half of my advances. It's left a tender bruise on my self-esteem—being unable to inspire his desire.

With a sigh, I dress quickly, smoothing the gauzy fabric down my thighs. Jasper groans when I step into the bathroom, so I settle for quickly swiping some mascara across my lashes and smoothing some beeswax balm across my lips. I grab a cardigan out of my dresser and head for the door.

While I wait for Jasper to grab his keys and wallet, I walk out on to the balcony, my eyes wandering across ocean, sunlight bouncing off its surface. I let the salt air flow through me, swirling into my lungs with each breath and easing the ache in my chest.

The ninety-minute drive is silent and tense—static crackling between us. Jasper's fingers move to his collar every few minutes, tugging at it. I'll never get used to seeing him in a starchy button-down.

Mrs. Whitlock greets me with air kisses and insincerity. It's not that she particularly dislikes me—it's just that _everything_ about her is fake. From her false eyelashes and her silicon-inflated breasts, her gel nails and her platinum chignon, right down to her affected accent—everything about Charlotte Whitlock is a carefully crafted charade.

In her living room, the windows are closed tight, keeping that "awful draught" from rusting and corroding her trinkets and knick-knacks. The air is thick with the cloying scents of a dozen different perfumes, mineral face powder and sticky lip-gloss.

Nettie gives me a half-smile as I take a seat beside her, wriggling my ass around to make room.

"Hi, Isabella."

"Hey, Nettie. How are you, chickie?"

"I'm very well, thank you." I stifle my laugh at her stiffly enunciated words.

Her usually cheerful twelve-year-old face is creased with concentration as she tries not to fidget. Her honey blonde hair is pulled back into a severe bun, and I barely contain my eye roll when I notice her eyelids are shaded with pink. Although she's almost thirteen, her mother continues to treat her like a fucking doll. A talented surfer and a really bright kid, she hates these afternoons even more than I do. She'd much prefer to be in the surf, or loitering down at the skate park with her friends, acting her age and goofing off.

"Antoinette!"

Nettie cringes as her mother's voice carries from the doorway leading into the kitchen.

"Stop bothering Isabella!"

I raise my voice but don't turn. "She's not bothering me at all, Lucia."

Nettie gives me a grateful smile, her eyes on her fingers.

I can hear Lucia's pursed lips in her sniffy reply. "How many times, Isabella? Please, you _must_ call me Lucy."

I wink at Nettie as I turn to face her mother. "You _must _call me Bella."

She nods stiffly, her sharp eyes sweeping over me. I'm sure she's cataloguing the chaotic tumble of my unbrushed hair, and the three pimples that have stubbornly formed on my chin. She sniffs, before disappearing back into Charlotte's kitchen.

"Cupcake?" I offer the plate of pastel-frosted treats to Nettie.

She looks at them longingly but shakes her head, her pouty little mouth turning down at the corners.

I choose two from the tray, and lean in, speaking into her ear. "Give it two minutes, then come and meet me under the frangipani tree."

She nods solemnly, her blue eyes filled with gratitude.

* * *

"I read your book." Nettie's voice is quiet, wobbling with nerves.

She's leaning against the trunk of the twisted and gnarled tree, her back to the house. Lemon frosting coats her top lip.

I pluck a frangipani from above her head and tuck it behind her ear. The scent of the pink and yellow blossoms hangs heavy over us in the dappled light the afternoon sunshine is throwing around us.

"Yeah? Which one?"

"_Losing Jessica_."

_Oh._ I look at her, keeping my expression neutral as she watches her toes dig into the damp soil.

Is she too young? There were a few scenes in that book that were a little, well, mature. Nothing too explicit, but I doubt Lucy would approve of some of the things my sixteen year old Jessica puts in her mouth in that story.

Nettie's lip is between her teeth, and I feel a little bad for her. I remember the frustration of being bored with "age appropriate" books.

"Did you like it?"

She nods, peeking up at me. "I really liked Tyler."

I pretend not to notice the pink spreading across her cheekbones. "He was my favorite, too."

"Bella?"

"Mmm."

"You won't tell Mom, will you?"

"Tell your Mom what, sweetie?"

"That I—" She breaks off, a smile plumping the apples of her cheeks. "Thank you."

* * *

"Don't think I didn't see you giving Nettie cupcakes."

I roll my eyes, and press my finger against the button on the door. I smile as the opening window allows the warm sea air to rush into the car. "She's nearly thirteen, J.J. One cupcake isn't going to do her any harm." _Nor will the three others I smuggled outside for her._

"I know that." His voice is as stiff and starchy as his shirt. "The problem is not with the sweets, but with you encouraging her disobedience. She's already enough of a handful for Aunt Lucy—without you teaching her that her mother's rules don't matter."

"Did you tell on her?" My heart turns upside down at the thought. It's ridiculous—it's a little cake, it's not like I rolled her a fucking joint or handed her a bottle of vodka.

"No." He smiles a little. "One cupcake isn't going to do her any harm."

* * *

Jasper pulls into our driveway, and has barely engaged the handbrake before I'm out of the car and heading for the beach.

"I'm going for a walk." I toss the words over my shoulder. I don't hear his reply—if he did, in fact, acknowledge me.

My thighs soon start to burn as I walk-run down the beach—away from Jasper, away from his mother and her sister, away from Jacob, away from all the pressures and demands that seem to be piling up on my shoulders.

I only slow my pace when I reach the little bend—the little cove where I can find solace and solitude.

Sunset orange bleeds into nighttime blues. The darkening sky casts a shadow across my heart, and I feel the sting of warm salt water at the corners of my eyes. I walk across the slippery-cool sand, the fine grains like silk, squeaking under my feet.

When my toes find the breaking waves, I imagine that I am some strange halophilic tree, planted on the shoreline. I can pretend that the water dripping down my face is being drawn up through my buried toes and flowing through me for nourishment, rather than being borne of this … this tight-chest, heavy-shoulders feeling that I don't want to name.

The sea breeze gathers around me, tangling my hair and cooling my skin.

Shivering a little, I move up the sand, away from the incoming tide. In the dunes, the sand is soft and dry, and I sink down into it, drawing my knees up to my chest.

In the darkness, with the waves shining silver under the pale moon, I remember the surfers I watched this morning. Here, I realize that though my observation was correct—that it is the surf that commands the surfer—the waves are not their own masters, either.

The moon, she controls them, her gravity ordering the tides, their highs and their lows.

But the moon—is she not tied to the earth? Chained to unthinkingly orbit it day by day by day.

And the earth—it wanders its wobbly path, making its annual pilgrimage, dancing it's obedient circle around fierce-burning Sol.

I watch the waves continue to swell and surge and I think about impotence and impetus, about choice and change, about the road I'm on, and the one I want to walk.

I'm back in the same place again. I love Jasper, I do. But the threads holding us together are wearing thin, fraying under the strain of our mismatched expectations and needs.

And I don't know what to do.

_Later_, I think. _I'll worry about it later._

I pick up a handful of sand, watching it spill, soft and white, from my fingertips. I close my eyes, imagining the warmth of a body beside me.

My mind drifts to Rosalie. Sad and lonely Rosalie.

_I want her to fall in love. I need to create a wonderful man—flawed, of course—but perfect for her. Someone worth the risk of falling in love._

My mind begins to fill with him as I stand, as I wander back toward the house. He starts to take shape. Words and phrases piling up, sketching him out.

Strong but compassionate. Adoring but not coddling. Considerate. Gentle but not weak. Thoughtful. Kind.

_He_ wouldn't have turned off all the outside lights, I decide.

_He_ wouldn't have locked the front door.

_He_ would have come looking, I decide.

_He—Edward, I think—_would worry about a two-hour absence.

_Edward _would be concerned about dried tear tracks.

_Edward?_

Yes.

_Edward Cullen._

Ignoring Jasper's rolling eyes, I make my way to my laptop, my fingers drumming on the table as I wait for it to load.

Rosalie Hale; meet Edward Cullen.

* * *

**A/N: Hello, friends :)**

**I'm starting this journey much earlier than I planned to, but this story is just so incredibly insistent about being told.**

**Love, as always, to my lovely friend BelieveItOrNot who is onboard to make sure I lose the word "gently" from my vocabulary, hold my hand, and be the person who always says "You can do it." Having someone who believes in you means the world. YMFC, Tam.**

**So ... I'd love to hear your thoughts.**

**Shell xx**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2.**

* * *

_"All good writing is swimming under water and holding your breath." __F. Scott Fitzgerald_

* * *

_Edward Cullen's long fingers curled around the neck of his beer bottle, though he did not bring it to his lips. The ability to complete such a basic task—lift bottle, sip and swallow—seemed to desert him the moment the woman settled herself onto the stool beside him._

_Her perfume had caught his attention first—subtle, warm and floral, it had swirled around him like the vapors of some strange potion, brewed to ensnare. And yet, while she was undeniably beautiful, there was an icy aura that seemed to frame her. Something in the set of her shoulders, the tilt of her chin, that spoke of her disinterest in the crowd of warm bodies pulsing behind her. _

_Despite the aloofness she seemed determined to project, Edward couldn't seem to stop his gaze from sliding back toward her every few minutes. _

_It wasn't her obscenely long legs, or the sweet swell and curve of her hips and waist, though he admired them immensely. Nor was it her pouty, red-painted lips, or the graceful curve of her neck—again, he appreciated these attributes, but they were not the things that had him captivated. _

_It was her right hand, which was currently poised on the stem of a champagne flute. Edward had noticed her slender fingers as soon as she placed them on the bar beside his elbow, pushing and flexing as she lifted herself onto the high stool._

_Everything about this woman was carefully cultivated, and Edward was sure he could easily have written her off as in icy princess, a self-entitled debutante looking down her graceful nose at those around her. _

_But for her hands. _

_They told a story that did not match the cover art. Though delicately boned, her fingers were rough and calloused, their skin dry and covered with scratches. The jagged edges of her nails spoke of an anxiety incongruous with the rest of her appearance, and the polish that had been applied at some time past was chipped and worn, floating like strange continents of color on the tips of her fingers. _

_These were hands that had seen demanding, physical work, and Edward immediately felt foolish for the assumptions he'd been so quick to make, as a curiosity beyond wondering what her breasts would feel like, or how her kisses would taste, began to stir._

_He set his unsipped beer back on the smooth granite bar, the clink-thunk drawing the woman's attention. Edward smiled as their eyes met, enjoying the pull in his lower belly, the way his breath caught in his lungs._

_The woman's eyes flickered down to her glass, then snapped back up, as if she had mentally chastised herself for looking away. Edward saw her shoulders square a little, saw the effort it took for her to return his smile. _

"_Can I buy you a drink?" The words came without thought, and now hung in the air between them. Edward kicked himself internally. _Fucking idiot. She's barely even touched her champagne.

_The woman's shiny red lips twitched, curving up in amusement. Edward braced himself for sharp words. _

_Instead, the gorgeous creature lifted her glass to her mouth and drained it in one swallow._

_She raised an eyebrow as she set the flute back on the bar. "Yes. You can."_

* * *

I tilt my head, as though the angle will somehow give me perspective and clarity on the words filling my screen.

Meeting in a bar. It's not exactly original.

But neither is life, really. People meet in bars. One-night stands, illicit affairs, lifelong relationships—so many of them start with that simple phrase, "can I buy you a drink?"

I force myself to focus, putting myself into the dimly lit club, my eyes closing briefly as I imagine a throbbing bass beat, the warmth of bodies pressed close, the tickle of champagne in my throat, the yeasty aroma of Edward's beer mingling with the subtle but masculine aftershave he'd be wearing.

I want to feel the tension crackling between these two characters. Their possibilities thrill me.

While I vacillate, afraid to leave the road I'm being jostled along, Rosalie and Edward have an infinite number of paths they can tread.

I can force them to take it slow, to develop their relationship like a flower reluctantly blooming. This night, this conversation, could simply be the first petal peeling away from the bud.

Or I can pluck the petals from the receptacle and toss them to the wind. I could have them fuck against the fire escape—a momentary tryst, futureless but empowering.

Of course, sometimes these things take on a life of their own, and I wonder how much control I actually have over the words appearing on my screen.

Banter flows through my fingertips. Rosalie allows him her name. They flirt. Drink. Laugh.

I frown. This isn't how I planned it.

I delete a few paragraphs and try again.

Flirt. Drink. Laugh. They're no closer to finding their way home together.

I huff out a breath of frustration. "Dude. I'm trying to get you laid here. She's hot. Don't you want to bang her?"

My thumb taps absently beside the track pad.

Maybe I can't send her home with him, because _I_ don't know who he is yet.

I open a new document.

* * *

_Though he was quite a handsome man, encountering Edward Cullen would rarely cause a woman to stop in her tracks, her heart thumping, her cheeks turning pink. His was not the kind of face that would have her gawking and swooning, whispering to her friends, or setting her eyelashes to flirty-fluttering._

_No, Edward Cullen's beauty was far more subtle, and made a far deeper, more lasting impression. _

_It was not his face that most women—or so-inclined men—would remember after meeting Edward for the first time. Rather, it was the friendly spark in his green eyes, the warmth in his voice, or the gentleness of his touch that would leave its mark._

_Of course, the greatest impression Edward made was on the children, toddlers and adolescents who found themselves in the paediatrics ward at Grace Memorial Hospital. For it was these young people who received most of his time, his efforts and his energy. They generally saw him when they were at their lowest, their most scared and vulnerable—when his compassion, patience and humor were almost as critical as the medical care he provided them._

* * *

A doctor? Those clichés are coming thick and fast, Bella.

No, he's not a doctor, I realize.

He's a nurse.

* * *

_Edward had wanted to be a nurse since he had his inflamed tonsils removed as five-year-old. He had barely spoken to the doctor who had been in charge of his care; it was the nurse—Nurse Jane—who had patiently answered every question his curious mind had concocted. She explained why taking his temperature was so important, the workings of the sphygmomanometer she wheeled around, and even allowed him to listen to his heartbeat with her stethoscope. _

_And as Edward listened carefully to the steady whomp-whomp of his mother's heartbeat—so much slower than baby Elizabeth's—he decided that nursing was obviously for him._

_The other boys teased him about it, even calling him "Nurse Edwina" for much of his high school career, but Edward—who couldn't really see why being a compared to girl was considered insulting—pursued his goal with single-minded intensity. _

_Of course, the taunting may likely have resulted less from scorn for Edward's chosen career path, and more from the jealousy and insecurity his peers felt at his easy popularity with the girls in his classes. _

_And though Edward was no monk, he never took advantage of even a fraction of the offers for female company he was presented with. The few girls he did take to his bed remained tight-lipped, though they could not quite hide the staining of their cheeks or the glazing over of their eyes when they were poked and prodded for details._

_Edward, for his own part, very much enjoyed the soft roundness of a woman's body, the feel of her warm skin pressed against his, the tickle of her hair, and the taste of her kisses. And yet, among the girls he knew—friends, lovers, girlfriends—he had not yet found the woman he was searching for. _

_At times, Edward was certain there must be someone out there, someone with whom he would fit, like two puzzle pieces locking into place. But other times, he shook his head at his foolish romanticism, and reminded himself that very few people seemed to find—or even looked for—that sort of soul-completing relationship he had watched his mother develop with Carlisle._

* * *

"Bella!"

"Mmm."

"Babe, for fuck's sake …"

I make the effort: I minimize the document, hiding Edward away, and turn to face Jasper.

"What's up, honey?"

His fingers flex, his thumbs clicking, and I flinch against the sound.

"I have a lunch meeting, and then a bunch more this afternoon."

I nod. "Yes, I remember. You won't be home for dinner—I made plans with Alice."

I kind of resent the way his eyes widen.

"Okay, well. I, uh, I'm heading out now."

He leaves without kissing me. It stings.

After a light lunch, I decide to brave the fall-cooled ocean. Of course, with Jasper gone for the afternoon, it's the ideal time to be writing, but my head feels fuzzy and jumbled, and my strained emotions are leaving me uninspired.

So I slip on my swimsuit, tying the awkward bow behind my neck, and fidgeting with the elastic around my bum until I'm confident it's tucked inside the fabric.

The sand is warm between my toes, as if the day's sun is stored in each grain. I throw my towel down sufficiently far away from the water's edge, and continue to walk until I'm waist deep in the salty water. I shiver a little, my arms rising reflexively, my elbows flapping at shoulder height as the cold water laps at my middle.

I fill my lungs and dive below the waves, reveling in the echoing silence, the freedom, the nothingness that lies beneath the water's surface.

I paddle around for a bit, not going beyond a depth where my toes can find the ocean floor. Despite my deep affinity for the sea, I'm not the strongest swimmer, and there is not another soul on the stretch of sand behind me.

I roll onto my back, buoyant in the salt. I steer myself until my feet point out to sea, laughing as my stomach flips with each wave that lifts and drops me. For just a few moments, I'm free. The stifled, constricted feeling is gone—my lungs breathe easily, there's enough room in my chest for my heart to thump its wild beat freely.

I lose track of time in the cradle of the sea.

A cloud passing over the sun has me shivering, and waterlogged, I stumble ashore, sneeze after sneeze jerking me as the saltwater purges.

I fold myself onto the sand as the curtain-cloud lifts from the sunshine. I enjoy the way the heat of the day seems to seep into my very bones, the way it pulses down my spine, spreading out to my fingers and toes. My skin and hair are salty-stiff, and sand has found its way into every crease and crevice.

I fall asleep on the sand, waking with a start as the afternoon cools and the sun moves lower on the horizon.

My skin is sore, red and tender, though the sun no longer has its midsummer bite.

I gather my things and head back home. I take a cold shower and soothe the burn with aloe vera, then wander around the house in my panties until the gel absorbs.

I forgo a bra, slipping a soft cotton dress over my head, and wincing a little as its hems and edges rub against my skin.

Alice laughs when she finds me standing on her welcome mat. She pretends to slap me, giggling when I shy away from her hands.

Alice is a little … well, she's _Alice_.

She's the girl who shaved her head last summer because she got tired of brushing it.

She's the girl who can't give you a lift home because the pile of garbage in her car swamps the passenger seat.

She's also the girl who currently has mud smeared across both her cheeks, dirt under her fingernails, and quite frankly—stinks.

"Allie, what the hell have you been doing?" I can't help the wrinkling of my nose.

"Composting! It's awesome, Bea. I have all these worms and they like, eat all my vegetable scraps and shit, and turn it into soil."

I wonder if the "shit" is literal, but I decide I don't want to know.

She moves to hug me, but I raise a hand to halt her progress. "Dude, you kinda smell."

She glances down at herself, examines her hands, then sticks her nose into her armpit. "Eww. You're right. Sorry. I'll just—"

She points toward the bathroom and I nod vigorously. "Yeah, yeah. You go shower. It's fine. I'll just go get a drink."

In Alice's kitchen, I ignore the three lidless bottles of wine in her fridge—I know for a fact at least two of them have been there for about six months—and grab the still-sealed Russian River Chardonnay.

I pour two glasses, leaving Alice's on the counter, and wander out into the fading afternoon. The days are getting shorter, and the breeze carries a chill that has my bare legs prickling.

The wine is cool and refreshing on my tongue, subtle vanilla and toast behind white peach and orange zest.

I stare up at the sky, straining to hear the surf's crashing rhythm. On a still night it's audible here—several blocks away from the beach—but tonight, the wind has Alice's chimes tinkling.

Alice joins me just as the afternoon fades into evening, the breeze picking up a little. I slide my cardigan sleeves down, pulling it tight around my chest with one hand, while the other brings the wine to my lips.

"It's going to rain tonight," Alice says.

I nod. I can smell it, the freshening of the salt air as the rain clouds gather overhead.

I take another sip of the wine. "Yeah. J.J. thinks we're in for some pretty bad storms over the next few weeks."

She nods. "How is Jasper?"

"He's all right. I mean, I think he is." My teeth find my lip.

Her sharp eyes bore through me. "You think?"

My shoulders slump. "We're just—well, we're not seeing eye to eye on some things at the moment."

"You want to talk about it?"

I shake my head. "No, I'm sure we'll be okay." I don't know if I'm trying to convince her or myself.

Alice might be eccentric, and it might seem she's not necessarily paying too much attention—but you'd be mistaken to think she wouldn't call things exactly as she sees them.

"It's about your writing, I suppose?"

"Most of the time, yes."

"You're not being fair to Jasper, Bea. He loves you. But he's also ten years older than you. He's ready for marriage, for kids, for stability. You can't really expect him to just wait around, while you spend more of your time in your imagination than you do in reality."

"I know, I—"

"Do you, though? I mean, really? How are you going to compromise for him? Are you going to pull your head out of that cloud of words you live in? You need to live. Here. Present."

I feel my face contract into a frown. "I am present, Alice."

"Sure, right now, you are. Because there are no words for you to hide in. But you need to exist outside the pages of the books you read—or write. You need to make more friends than the ones you create in your head."

I don't think Alice means to be cruel, but her words are like a poisoned dart. She continues to speak, her hands waving passionately, but I can't hear her over the white noise filling my brain.

I take another sip of wine. It's flat, tasteless.

Am I the person Alice thinks I've become? Am I living in some deluded corner of my imagination?

I want to say no. I mean—I _am_ completely capable of normal social interaction. I have a wonderful, if small, group of friends, and—until recently—a healthy, long-term relationship with my boyfriend. I'm a little shy, yes, and perhaps a little awkward, but it's not like I have socialization or mental health issues.

And I know this, because Mom dragged me from doctors to psychologists to behavior specialists, having me tested and analyzed for pretty much everything as a teenager: depression, ADHD, autism spectrum disorders, and so on.

In the end my diagnosis was simply a lack of discipline and overly creative imagination.

I've tried to work on the discipline thing, really. I've devised schedules, I've set alarms, and I've even tried setting locks on my laptop so I can't use it between certain times. But nothing has really worked—when an idea is there, it needs to be pinned down, captured and contained before it disappears. And deprived of my computer, I'll simply find a pen and any blank space and write for as long as the inspiration lasts.

Maybe Alice is right? But what do I do?

I'm aware that it's hard work to love me. I know I'm difficult—obsessive and forgetful, a little strange.

But writing is … everything. It's my job, yes, but it's more than that. It's a compulsion. Sometimes it feels like I don't choose the stories I tell—they choose me. They seize me and insist I unravel them and spin them out.

"What do I do?"

Alice's voice trips to a stop at my question.

"What do I do, Alice? Do I give up something that's so important to me, to make him happy? Is that it? Is it Jasper or writing? One or the other?"

The look on her face is a little peculiar. I can't read it. She scrubs her hand over her shorn scalp. "I, uh—I don't know if it's my place—"

"You were happy enough to tell me how unfair I'm being to him, Al. So tell me what it will take to be fair to him. How much do I have to compromise? You say he's ready for children. Well, I'm not. Should I pop out a few for his sake, regardless?" The bitterness in my tone is so thick I barely recognize my own voice. "You say he wants marriage. How come he's never mentioned this—or having kids—to me?"

She presses the tips of her fingers together, tapping each set, not meeting my eyes. "I don't know. We, uh—we chat a bit when we run into each other, you know? He's—I guess he just wanted someone to unload on."

Wordlessly, I step back inside.

"Bella—wait!"

I pause but don't turn.

"We just talked. Nothing else. You know that, right? I'd never—"

I shake my head. "Yeah, I know."

It hadn't even crossed my mind.

I still feel betrayed.

* * *

The wind seems to circle around me, taunting and teasing, needling at me as I walk the few blocks home. It's shrieks and whistles, jeering and shaming.

The front door is unlocked, the doorstep illuminated by the single globe overhead. Inside, the peaceful blue-dark shadows are contrasted by the faint sounds of gunfire and cursing coming from the television in the living room.

I can't face Jasper right now, chafed as I am from Alice's words.

I find my way to Edward, instead.

* * *

_Rosalie wasn't quite sure what prompted her to accept this young man's offer to buy her a drink. Perhaps it was the way his head ducked in embarrassment as his gaze fell on the barely-sipped glass of champagne casually bubbling between them. Or perhaps it was the timbre of his voice, which was not weighed down with suggestion or expectation. There was an openness in his speech, reflected in his clear eyes. Somehow, he made the offer seem like hospitality—so unlike the usual pick-up lines tossed carelessly at her by strangers._

_His answering smile made Rosalie very glad she had accepted his offer. _He should smile always_, she thought. _

_When he turned to signal the bartender, Rosalie took the opportunity to run her eyes over the young man's form. He was tall, she could tell from the way his knees kept bumping into the bar as he moved on his stool, and kind of lean, she guessed. His dark hair—she couldn't tell what exact color it was under the blue-tinged bar lights—was casually disheveled, but not in the kind of way that made you think he'd actually spent an hour trying to achieve that I-couldn't-care-less look. His jaw –_

* * *

No.

Not just-fucked hair, please.

* * *

_When he turned to signal the bartender, Rosalie took the opportunity to run her eyes over the young man's form. He was tall, she could tell from the way his knees kept bumping into the bar as he moved on his stool, and kind of lean. Rosalie didn't see what color his eyes were, or notice how his hair was styled. She did notice, though, the stubble that shaded his jaw, and the dark circles beneath his eyes. _

He looks exhausted_, she thought. _So why is he here, buying me a drink, when he clearly needs to pass out for at least eight hours?

"_The same again?" His voice surprised her, and she felt her cheeks heat at being caught staring._

"_Yes, Moët, please. The oh-two rosé." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Rosalie felt a little foolish. She wondered if the young man thought her as pretentious as she sounded to herself. _

_He winked, flashed her half a smile and continued to speak to the bow-tied bartender._

_Half an hour later, the bottle between them was two-thirds empty, and the pink-tinted bubbles had loosened their tongues—a little._

_Edward thought Rosalie's name suited her perfectly. She was beautiful, but guarded. He didn't know why, but he sensed the arm's length she put between herself and the world—even the alcohol pinkening her cheeks didn't cause the line she'd drawn to blur. _

_Rosalie thought Edward's name suited him perfectly, too. There was something as Old World about him as the fizz they were drinking. She also thought that if she were the type to swoon, she'd have been on the floor in a dead faint as she listened to him talk about the children he worked with._

"_You're a doctor?"_

_Edward's smile was easy, but wry. "No. I'm a nurse."_

_He expected an arched eyebrow, an uncomfortable throat clearing. He was used to the surprise, the disdain, and the assumption he was too dumb for medical school._

_Rosalie, though, was scarcely typical. _

_She nodded, her eyes half-closed. "You love it." _

"_I do." _

"_My grandmother was a nurse. Amazing woman."_

_Edward smiled wider, but Rosalie seemed disinclined to offer any more information. Instead, she brought her glass to her lips and swallowed deeply. _

_Taking that as his cue to change the subject, Edward moved the conversation along. He found Rosalie was happy enough to talk to him about her own work—she was a cabinetmaker—an "ébéniste," according to the business card she handed him. _

_Edward smiled to himself at the image of this beautiful young woman laboring over a fine table or armoire, a chisel in her hand, her full lips pursing as she carefully blew the sawdust away from the intricate details she was carving._

_He suspected that her work was probably astronomically priced, and was unsurprised when she reluctantly confessed there was a three-year waiting list for commissions._

"_What are you working on at the moment?" _

"_A desk, actually. I'm quite excited about it. I'm building all these hidden drawers and compartments into it."_

_The was something, a fondness or pride perhaps, in Rosalie's smile as she detailed the decorations she was basing on the work of one Jean-Pierre Latz, that Edward was familiar with. He usually saw it on the faces of mothers who visited the ward once their child had been discharged, when they came back to thank the doctors and nurses for their efforts, and boast of their child's progress. _

_Much of her explanation went over Edward's head, words like "marquetry" and "veneer" didn't mean much to him, but he found he didn't mind in the slightest—he was simply enjoying the way the subject animated the speaker. _

"_Of course, Latz and his peers used materials like ebony, Peltogyne—that's Purple Heart—rosewood and so on. But now, so many of those species have been overharvested and are impossible to source. So, one of the things I'm becoming known for is using ethically harvested, traceable timber. I source a lot of wood from the Pacific Northwest and stain it myself."_

_As the bottle emptied, their banter turned flirtatious, teasing. Their shoulders drew closer, elbows knocked, fingertips brushed. _

_Rosalie insisted it was her turn, so she ordered the next bottle. They switched to red wine—whatever the bartender brought them, since she couldn't be bothered to study the wine list—and Edward found he quite liked watching the deep-colored liquid tumbling against Rosalie's lips each time she raised her glass._

"_I'm actually quite impressed, Edward," she admitted, her voice turning sly. "You haven't made one remark about the fact I handle wood all day." _

_Edward chuckled. "I've been trying, but it's hard."_

_Rosalie's eyebrow arched and Edward rushed to speak as her lips parted, his words slamming into each other in their hurry to beat her to it. "Please, don't say it. Don't."_

_She pouted shamelessly. "Do you know, I've never had the opportunity? You just deprived me of my first chance to say those four words."_

"_It's incredibly overrated."_

"_That's what she said!" Rosalie grinned, triumphant, as Edward groaned and dropped his head to his hands._

* * *

I just wrote a fucking _that's what she said_ joke?

Eh, I suppose it's culturally relevant. And Rosalie seemed so determined to have her chance to use it.

I re-read over their interaction, the fingers of my left hand circling and pushing against my temple.

There's no spark between these two.

Frustrated, I push myself to my feet and wander out to the kitchen.

The sound of the boiling kettle draws Jasper's attention, and he joins me, setting another mug on the counter beside mine. I swing a chamomile bag into his, peppermint into my own.

"You're home early."

As my eyes find the clock, the evening rushes back to me.

"Uh, yeah. I wasn't feeling great."

His hands settle on my waist, trying to draw me close. I've been desperate for this sort of affection for weeks, and yet, tonight, it feels all wrong. I resist, pushing his hands away and busying myself with pouring the scalding water into the mugs.

Undeterred, Jasper slides his arm around my waist, hugging his body against my back. He rests his chin on my shoulder.

"Are you okay, babe?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine." _I hope._

I squeeze out the bags, pushing my bum against him until he steps back. I turn and hand him his tea.

"Thanks. Are you writing tonight?"

"Uh, I don't know." I feel wrong-footed and confused. "I might just read for a while."

"Why don't you come and watch this movie with me?"

"Uh –" I hesitate. I'm on edge, uncomfortable, and my brain feels as though it's trying to burrow its way out of my skull.

Jasper's lips turn up a little. "Go, read. There's only half an hour of this left, anyway." He presses a kiss to my cheek and disappears back into the living room.

I remain in place, my cheek burning with the heat of his lips. Feeling kind of awful, I rub my face against my shoulder. I wanted this—but now it's just making me feel strange. What's going on with me?

I pick up the mug, steamy peppermint vapors curling around my hand.

I can't settle to anything.

I pick up a book and read the same paragraph four times before I dog-ear the page and close it again. I stare blankly at my laptop screen, but Rosalie and Edward are frozen in their state of flirty almost-inebriation. I can picture them clearly, their lips stained purple, their smiles suggestive, their laughter ringing—but they refuse to move forward.

Eventually, feeling as though I'm going to come apart at the seams, burst from my skin, or start screaming, I grab my phone and a warmer sweater, shoot Jasper a text, and make for the sand.

* * *

In the morning, I wake with heavy eyelids and a sniffly-drippy nose.

Jasper leaves a cup of ginger-honey-lemon beside me before he heads out for his surf, reminding me that he'll be out for most of the day.

I drag my body upright, forcing the fragrant drink down my scratchy throat, then collapse back into my pillows, my body aching and stiff.

I leave bed only to use the bathroom and dose myself up with paracetamol and ibuprofen. In between, I doze on and off, until the afternoon sun begins to sink low in the sky and bathe the bedroom with golden light.

When I can no longer stand my clammy skin, and the way my hair sticks in twists and curls to the back of my neck, I shuffle my way into the bathroom and strip out of my fever-damp clothes. I'm kind of glad my nose is stuffy—I can't imagine I smell particularly pleasant right now.

The steam helps clear my head, and the warm water is a soothing caress on my skin. Washed hair and clean pajamas, and my equilibrium is almost restored.

I grab a box of tissues and a bag of potato chips, and climb back into bed with my laptop. As a rule, I refuse to eat where I sleep, but these sheets are going in the wash in a few hours, so fuck it.

Edward and Rosalie are where I left them: static, uncooperative, resistant.

* * *

_As the ruby liquid dwindled in it's dark green glass, Edward's smile became less defined, and his words slid out easier. _

I'm drunk_, he thought. _Oh well, I don't work until tomorrow night—plenty of time to sleep it off.

_He glanced at Rosalie. Her lovely features were still composed, her speech still precise, but he saw the alcohol working in the way her hand reached for her glass, the way she concentrated so hard on closing her fingers around it, the tiny creases between her eyes as she brought it to her mouth. _

_Rosalie felt the heat in her cheeks, pressed the back of her hand against her face. Her fingers were cool against the wine-induced flush. She found herself thankful for the low lights in the bar. Though they were designed for intimacy, she found instead that she felt anonymous and hidden, guarded by the shadows cast around her._

_Edward giggled as he divided the last of the Barolo between their glasses. Rosalie's lips pulled themselves up at the corners, stretching wide. There was something so boyish and innocent in the sound; unexpected in a man who had surely seen more tragedy than most._

_Their shared inebriation made her feel safe, too. Though she knew her judgment was not at it's most sound, she had already determined—partway through the champagne, in fact—that Edward was too much a gentleman to press any advantage her shifting discernment might have afforded him. _

_The wine swallowed and savored, literary and musical tastes compared and contrasted, their conversation wound to a halt. Like an old tape reaching the end of its playlist, there was a hesitation, a white noise that hovered between them._

_Edward chanced a glance at Rosalie, noticed the way she shifted on her stool. Her fingertips moved to her mouth, then fluttered away as she caught herself. _

Time to call it a night_, he decided._

_When Edward declared it time for them to find a cab, and their respective beds, Rosalie couldn't decide if she was disappointed or relieved. She had enjoyed the evening, and was reluctant for it to end. And, if she were to be honest, she was also a trifle put out that Edward had not tried to plant his lips anywhere but the back of her hand. _

_They made their way above ground, Edward's hand on the small of Rosalie's back. The busy street took them both by surprise—the hustle and bustle jarred their wine-coated nerves, and the ease between them seemed to roll away in the wake of the buses that rumbled past._

_Edward caught Rosalie's hand as she stooped to climb into the yellow car idling at the curb. _

"_Wait –"_

"_Oh. Uh, here." She fished her phone out of the beaded clutch tucked under her arm and pressed it into his hand, both of them having forgotten the small card already residing in the pocket of Edward's pants. "Maybe, you should—if you want to –"_

_Edward smiled, and his thumbs slid across the screen. "Done."_

"_Oh. Um, great." _

_Her hand closed around the small device as he passed it back to her. _

_Edward's eyes lifted to her face, bounced between her lips and her steady regard. He didn't quite understand the look her eyes held—it seemed less like an invitation and more like … a challenge? _

_His head dropped, moved closer, but his lips found her cheek, causing Rosalie to sigh._

"_I'll call you," she said, as she ducked into the cab. "Soon."_

_Hands in his pockets, Edward watched the tail lights blend into the galaxy of colored lights speeding past him. "Sure you will."_

* * *

There's a strange magnetism between these two. They refuse to be brought together. Two north poles that refuse to connect.

It's disconcerting to say the least. They don't fucking exist outside the confines of my mind, or the words on my screen. So how can they exert their wills against mine?

"Seriously, Edward. She's clever, she's genuine, she's beautiful. I don't … I don't fucking understand. What are you looking for? What are you waiting for?"

Jasper clears his throat from the doorway, causing me to knock over the water on the nightstand as my elbow jerks in surprise. I lift my laptop away from the puddle forming on the sheets.

It's really dark, I realize. The room is cloaked in shadows, the only light coming from the screen I'm awkwardly balancing above my head.

"Have you been home long?"

There's no answer. He's already gone.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you so very much to all you lovely people who have favourited, followed, and reviewed. I'm so excited to have you on board for this journey. I do so love to hear from you all. :)**

**If you'd like, come find me on twitter "shellisthimbles"**

**Shell x**

* * *

**MissWinkles shares my love of peanut butter and delusions.**

**BelieveItOrNot, dragonfly366, dreamingingnorweigen, IReen H, and moirae - are wonderful, inspiring ladies. Timezones can't hold us back!**

**Speaking of ... IReen H has just completed the utterly phenomenal _High Fidelity_. If you haven't read it, please, do so soon. It's in my favourites.**

**And Tam ... you're my favourite colour, and probably the sweetest sweetheart ever.**

* * *

**By the by, I don't own _Twilight_. Just in case you were wondering ;)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3.**

* * *

_"You must write for yourself, above all. That is [your] only hope of creating something beautiful." __Gustave Flaubert _

* * *

I flip the pillow over, my fists pushing it into a mound under my head. I pull the comforter up to my chin, then shrug it off my shoulders a few moments later.

This is new, this restlessness that keeps me from finding deep, restorative sleep.

My hand fumbles for my phone. _5:00am._

Rolling over, I will my body back to sleep.

I give up twenty minutes later.

I brew some coffee in a French press, so as not to disturb Jasper, grab a granola bar and my laptop, and sit myself at the breakfast table.

It's mostly dark outside, and the wind has picked up overnight. It howls and whistles around the house, and the trees beyond the balcony bend and sway with its violent gusts.

I stare at the document in front of me. Edward remains, intoxicated, hands in his pockets, watching Rosalie's cab disappear into the distance. The feeling is all wrong, though. He seems … resigned. He should be hopeful, expectant.

I consider tweaking things, but I feel weirdly uneasy about it.

_Maybe he needs to sleep, re-examine things in the clear light of day. Perhaps Rosalie calling him needs to happen before he gives himself over to hope._

* * *

_As clear light burst unwelcome into his bedroom, Edward groaned and cursed, his arm moving to cover his eyes. He rolled over, pulled his comforter over his head and fell asleep again, his dreams filled with red lips and blonde hair, and most peculiarly, the smell of sawdust._

_A few hours later, the ache in his head had faded to the usual heavy-headedness he experienced in the morning. His fingers worked at his temples, and Edward slid from his tangled sheets and headed to shower the residue of the night before from his body._

* * *

Shower. Hmm. I contemplate writing him jacking-off, his mind full of Rosalie's curves.

I grasp frantically for the words, the image is clear—and fucking erotic—in my mind. Edward, naked, dark hair plastered against his skull, water sluicing down his frame, his hand braced against the tiles of his shower. His other hand grips his cock, his knees buckling, a low oath carried on the rising steam as he climaxes.

I shift a little in my chair. _Fuck._

The cursor winks at me. Over and over. In the same spot. My fingers hover above the keyboard. The image is vivid, but something I can't understand is stopping it from shaping into words.

Chin in my hands, I huff my frustration. _What is it about this man? He's so damned uncooperative. _

Lightning jags across the sky, a strobe light pulsing, as the sea rages like a nightclub packed with too many bodies.

* * *

_A towel wrapped around his waist, Edward snared his watch from the nightstand and buckled it around his wrist. It was almost midday, and his shift on the paeds ward didn't start until midnight. _

_He snagged a tee-shirt from the floor and pulled it over his head, stepped into a clean pair of shorts, and was lacing his sneakers when his cell phone began to ring._

"_Hello?"_

"_Edward, hey. What are you doing?" Garrett's voice was far too loud—he was one of those hard-of-hearing people who seemed to think shouting down a phone line would help him better understand the person on the other end of the call._

"_Garrett. Volume." Edward said, holding his cell away from his ear._

"_Sorry. Listen, what're you doing?"_

"_I'm just about to go for a run. Why?" Edward's fingers found the back of his neck, his thumb pushing down the knotted muscles. He fervently hoped Garrett hadn't called to try to switch shifts with him._

"_Pete and I are going to Dan's for lunch—we thought we'd see if you wanted to join us? You're on tonight, right?" _

_Edward glanced at his watch. "Yeah. Uh, what time?"_

"_One? Or do you want to make it a little later?"_

"_Yeah, make it one-thirty. I'll see you then."_

_As Edward ran, his muscles burning, his knees protesting a little at the steady pounding, his mind wandered to the evening past. It hadn't even occurred to him when his phone rang that it could possibly have been Rosalie. _

_As she smiled in his mind's eye, and brought the red wine to her lips in his memory, he tried to sort through the curiosity he felt regarding her._

* * *

Curiosity?

It should be sparking attraction, flaring interest.

Maybe he is as confused as I am.

* * *

Curiosity?_ Edward shook his head at his own thoughts. _That makes her sound like a puzzle I'm trying to solve.

_Confused by his own lack of a visceral response to such a beautiful, intelligent woman, Edward squeezed the volume up on his iPod and pushed his legs harder. He forced himself to concentrate instead, on the simple mechanics of breathing: in through the nose, out through the mouth. _

_His head felt clearer by the time he unlocked his front door and climbed into the shower for the second time that day._

If she calls, she calls,_ he thought. _There's no point getting myself worked up when I may never hear from her again, anyway.

_Garrett and Peter were already seated, their eyes shaded with dark lenses, their legs sprawled under the tiny table, in the courtyard of the little French patisserie-café they favored. Edward shook his head, grinning to himself when he noticed their fingers unlink on catching sight of him. He didn't quite understand the reflex, when he'd known about their relationship for close to six months now._

_Edward greeted his colleagues, shaking hands and slapping backs, and then slumped into an empty chair. _

"_You look like shit," Peter told him. _

_Edward flipped him off, wincing as he felt the toe of Garrett's shoe collide with his shin. "Ouch! That was me."_

"_Sorry!" _

_Garrett leveled Peter with a stern look, and turned his attention back to Edward. "So, uh, how was your evening?" _

_Edward's eyebrows rose in challenge. "Well … Let's see. I was supposed to meet some friends for drinks. But, it turns out they're total dickheads, and they cancelled on me—once I was already there." He smiled so they knew he wasn't actually upset._

_Pete clapped his hand over his mouth as a giggle tried to escape. Edward and Garrett shook their heads in amusement. _

"_Subtle, guys. Real subtle. So, tell me about Rosalie."_

_Pete pushed his dark glasses back on his head, his black hair spiking out from underneath them. "Uh, who?"_

"_Yeah, funny. The blonde. Curvy; sexy as fuck. Woodworker."_

"_Wait." Garrett copied his boyfriend, tossing his sunglasses on to the table in front of him. His hazel eyes danced with amusement. "You met a, quote unquote, sexy as fuck blonde, and you woke up alone this morning? Edward, man, I'm disappointed."_

_Edward looked between the two men. "You guys really weren't involved—this wasn't a set up?"_

"_No. We're just dickheads who stand their friend up," Pete chirped._

"_Seriously, Cullen. We're sorry we bailed on you, but we don't know this blonde."_

_Edward looked between his friends, seeing only sincerity, and perhaps a little exasperation, in their eyes. "Okay."_

"_Now. Tell us about lovely Rosalie."_

_Edward shrugged, his eyes on the menu. "I mean, she was gorgeous, really clever, interesting, fun to hang out with, but … I don't know. She has my number."_

_From the corner of his eye, he saw the silent conversation his friends were having with their raised eyebrows and discreet nods._

"_I don't understand it. Like, on paper, she's perfect. But it was just …"_

"_No spark?" Peter suggested._

_Edward nodded. "Perhaps. I dunno, if she calls, then, yeah—we'll see, I guess."_

* * *

"Bea?"

"Mmm." _Focus, Bella_, I remind myself. I look up to see Jasper balancing a bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice. I close my laptop and move it off the table, making space for him. "Good morning, honey."

Jasper smiles; his knees bending as he stoops to kiss my lips before he takes his seat.

"You're up early."

I sigh. "I haven't been sleeping so well—just the last few nights."

Jasper pauses, his eyes focused on my face. "Are you okay?"

"I think so." I shrug. "I mean, it's really annoying, but, I dunno, I'm not like, stressed out or anything."

He nods, his eyes becoming thoughtful. "What are you writing at the moment?"

I pause, the breath catching in my throat. I'm disconcerted by my reluctance to share this story with him.

"Uh, it's a romance, actually."

He laughs. The fucker actually laughs. "A romance. You're kidding?"

"Why would I be kidding?" The words come out a whisper.

"It's just—like, no offence, really. But, don't they always tell writers to write what they know?"

His words are a slap across my face.

I don't think he's trying to be cruel, but he's unknowingly found my most secret fear, my greatest insecurity.

"You think I don't know love?"

"What?"

I swallow hard, fighting the hurt threatening to choke me. "With the … the 'writing what you know.' Are you, uh, saying that I don't know what love looks like—that I'm not loving?"

Jasper tilts his head at me, his smile patient. "No, silly girl." His forehead creases, and his fingers move to rest on my wrist. "That's not what I meant at all. It's just, like, a _romance_, really? You hate candles and flowers and puffy love hearts. It seems a strange choice. For you, you know?"

The ice in the bottom of my stomach melts a little. "Oh."

"I mean, Bea … the first time I made you breakfast in bed, you lectured me on hygiene and made me wash all the linen. And the last time I bought you flowers, you said you'd rather I spend the equivalent money on books. You're just … those sweeping, romantic gestures aren't _you_. So, it's weird—to me—that you want to write that kind of thing."

I watch the pulse of lightning continue on the slow-brightening horizon; Jasper strokes my wrist.

A giggle bubbles out of me as my brain decodes his words. "Oh my goodness!" I look back at him, slapping at his forearm. "You—you dork! J.J.?! No. Just … Hell no!"

His expression is both relieved and bewildered.

"You thought—what, that I was writing some Harlequin bodice-ripper or something?"

He pushes his sleep-messy curls out of his eyes, mock-leering at me. "Bodice-ripping sounds promising, actually."

I shake my head. "Of course it does. No, you idjit. I meant a love story, a romance between two people—but not a sappy, clichéd melodrama. I mean … shit. No. That's not me. Not at all."

"Oh." He scrubs at his chin, looking a little sheepish. "I … yeah. Okay. That makes a bit more sense."

I'm still laughing, relief making me stupid, as I gather up my mug and the press. "I, uh, I think I'm going to take a shower."

He nods, and winks, his blue eyes still glinting with humor. "I'll join you in a minute."

True to his word, he ducks behind the curtain as I'm rinsing conditioner from my hair.

His hands are everywhere, sliding across my skin, squeezing, stroking. He pulls me against him, my back to his front. I can feel him, hot and hard against my lower back.

I melt into to his touch, and a series of images flash, pop and burst behind my closed eyes, like an old film flickering from a faulty projector.

A different shower, a different pair of hands. Long, skilful fingers between my legs, another hand moving across my breasts.

Even as the moan escapes my lips, I'm filled with guilt, or emptied by it—my insides hollowed. I ignore it, pushing it aside—feeling, need, want, superseding right and good. My orgasm crashes over me, buckling my knees. I sag against the arm wrapped around my waist, tasting blood as I bite down against his name. _Edward._

Jasper's smirk is cocky when he spins me around, when he takes my shaky hand and places it on himself. I pump and stroke, my mind so far from this place that he has to pry my grip from him as he shudders and shakes, curses flying from his lips.

His chest heaves, his breath coming heavy and fast. "That was intense."

He takes my mumbles for agreement, kissing my cheek and stepping out of the steam-filled shower. "Love you."

I dress slowly, my fingers lingering over buttons and zippers.

Dry and clothed, my hair tucked up in a topknot, I return to the breakfast table. My mind is still full of Edward as my gaze drifts out to sea. It's as grey as the heavy skies, the white caps hurling themselves against the sand in fury.

"Babe, I'm going now."

" 'kay." I smile at Jasper as he shrugs into his jacket. "Have a good day."

"Can you please remember to pull in the laundry before the rain starts?"

I nod. "Yeah, of course. No problem."

My eyes flick across the grey sky as the front door clicks closed. The clouds are turning black and blue as the weather moves onshore. The clothes are whipped around on the line as the wind strengthens, flapping like multicolored, misshapen flags. I'll need to bring them in soon. Better to do it now, actually. I run back into the bedroom to grab a hooded sweater.

I'm digging through my bottom drawer when inspiration strikes.

_I need to help the reader understand Rosalie, and she's not going to be ready to open up to Edward any time soon, not yet. I need to draw her out with a friend, a girlfriend. _

Pulling the sweater over my head, I dart back to my laptop, my mind already sorting through sentences and ideas.

* * *

_The dull click-click of high-heeled shoes on the concrete floor of her workshop caught Rosalie's attention immediately. She set the sandpaper she was holding down, pushed the clear safety glasses on top of her head, and wiped away the sweat-soaked tendrils of hair that had attached themselves to her face and neck._

"_Hi, gorgeous." _

_Rosalie rolled her eyes at Irina's greeting, but her lips formed an easy smile. "Good morning."_

_Irina pursed her mouth, arched her sculpted brows. "I don't know about that. But I'm thinking your night can't have been that good if you're already in here. I half-hoped to find you still in bed—preferably not alone."_

_Rose laughed. "You wanted to walk in on me in bed with someone? I'm a little disturbed. Remind me to have you return that set of keys." _

"_Psshht. You know what I mean." Irina tossed her head impatiently. _

_Rosalie was impressed by the way her platinum bob barely seemed to wobble with the movement, each strand following the orders it had received with the application of whichever mind-bogglingly expensive products Irina used each morning. Powdered unicorn horn, crushed under a full moon, and mixed with some kind of paste made from fairies' wings, most likely. _

"_Well …" Irina was clearly not going to let the subject slide easily. "Details, woman!"_

_Rose sighed. "Come on." She opened the door that separated her garage-cum-workshop from her kitchen, and kicked off her heavy-toed boots. They landed next to a pair of midnight blue pumps._

"_Don't forget those, Ri." Rosalie indicated the stiletto-heeled shoes with a pointed toe. "And thanks, by the way."_

_The two women moved around each other, brewing tea and plating up some cookies, with the easy-familiarity of those who are used to sharing space. Indeed, they had been roommates in Rosalie's first—and only—year of college._

"_Let me get this straight. You spent several hours talking to an incredibly gorgeous, funny, and sweet man—and yet, you caught a cab home alone?" Irina looked at her friend, her face reflecting a peculiar mixture of disgust and admiration. "How? Why?"_

_Rosalie sipped her tea as she looked for the right words. "I don't know, Ri. It just felt … right, I suppose. He's lovely, really. But, I don't know, there were no tummy-tickles, no heart-flutters. Shouldn't those things be there?"_

_Irina considered her friend's question, answering slowly. "Well, I'm not sure. I don't think every great relationship starts with a bang, you know? Sometimes they do, for sure. Sparks and fireworks and operatic arias. All that. But sometimes, I think they just … evolve."_

_Rosalie nodded, her eyes wide as she absorbed the wisdom her usually brusque and brash friend was spinning. "I guess."_

"_So, are you going to call him?" Irina smirked._

"_I … uh, I guess—I don't know. Maybe."_

"_You'll call him."_

"_I will?"_

_Irina picked up an almond shortbread and took a small bite before she answered. "Yep. And you know why?" _

"_Enlighten me."_

"Because_ there's no spark."_

_Rosalie frowned, turning her own cookie over, her fingertips becoming coated with icing sugar. "I don't understand."_

"_Well, I know you, Rosie. And you've pretty much run a mile from every man you've been attracted to since Emmett. I think the spark scares you."_

_Rosalie opened her mouth to object, but closed it quickly. _

_Irina continued as her neatly manicured hand closed over Rosalie's sticky fingers. "So, I think you'll call this Edward—because he's safe. You're not overwhelmed by your attraction to him."_

_Though she had lost her interest in the sweets on the table, Rosalie pulled her hand from her friend's and crammed another bite into her mouth. She needed the time to think before she responded to Irina's theorizing._

_Did 'the spark' scare her? Rosalie wanted to deny it, but she suspected Irina was right. The very feelings she had observed were lacking when she was with Edward—the racing heart, the flip-flopping tummy—were the feelings that tended to have her running in the opposite direction, away from the men she had dallied with since _him_—since Emmett._

_When Emmett's dimpled cheeks filled her mind, Rosalie shook her head. She refused to let herself focus on recalling the face that wore that smile. She tried not to think about the shape of his lips, the scar under his chin, or the hazel eyes she still missed more than she would ever let on. _

"_Yes, I'll call him—Edward. I will."_

* * *

Okay. A second date. Good. This is progress.

I sigh, tugging the elastic from my hair and shaking it loose. It's still damp from being tied up while wet. I run my fingers through it, combing out a few tangles.

I twist in my chair, my back protesting having been curled over my laptop for the last few hours. My eyes need a break, too.

I pull myself to my feet, walking aimless circles to unwind tightened muscles.

Deciding it's close enough to lunchtime, I reheat some leftover risotto. I eat it standing, watching the rain sweep in across the ocean. It's one of my favorite sights—a training thunderstorm moving over the ocean and up toward the house.

When this was my grandparents' house, I lived for these moments, few though they are in this ever-sunny place. The eerie expectation as the grey thickens and encroaches, the almost-silence shattered when the furious drumming of thousands of droplets against the roof begins.

When I'm finished eating, I dump my bowl in the sink, drain a glass of soda, and head back to my computer.

* * *

"_Just do it. Just call." _

_Rosalie had been unsuccessfully trying to convince herself to call Edward for most of the day. She had waited a week, as Irina had suggested—apparently any sooner would have made her seem desperate. _

_She rolled her eyes and huffed as she glared at the small device in her hand, wondering if she ought to weed the garden before she called him. In an exercise of extreme avoidance, she had already vacuumed her house, emptied out and cleaned her refrigerator, and rearranged her entire workshop._

_It wasn't that she didn't want to see Edward again, or was particularly fearful that he might not want to see her. Rosalie just really, really despised talking on the telephone—to anyone. She hated not being able to read people's expressions, and she often misinterpreted the tone of their voice. _

_She considered texting him, but dismissed the idea immediately. _

_She held her breath as her fingers slid across the screen, and she held the phone to her ear. Her pulse accelerated and made it hard to hear the shrill _bring-bring_ as she waited for the call to connect._

"_Hello?"_

"_Uh, hi. Um, Edward. It's Ros –"_

"_Gotchya. Sorry, I can't answer the phone right now, but leave me a message and I'll get back to you soon."_

"_Wha – … But …" Bewildered, Rosalie looked at the phone in her hand for an explanation._

_Beeeeeeeep._

"_Shit!" She quickly jabbed her finger at the screen, ending the call. _

_She breathed heavily, trying to regain her composure. Squaring her shoulders against her invisible enemy, Rosalie redialed Edward's number, rehearsing her message._

"_Mmmf … 'lo?" _

_Rosalie blinked, peering at the screen to check she'd dialed the correct number._

_She had._

"_Hello?" The voice repeated, slightly more intelligibly._

"_Oh, uh. Hi, Edward? It's Rosalie."_

"_Uh-huh." She heard some rustling before he spoke again. The words rushed out. "Oh, Rosalie. Hi. I'm sorry. How are you?" _

_Rosalie frowned. "Did I wake you?"_

"_Yeah—it's okay though, don't worry. Happens all the time."_

"_You're often asleep at five o'clock in the afternoon?"_

"_Yeah. I'm on nightshift this week, so I usually nap in the evening."_

"_Oh, I'm so sorry!"_

"_It's fine. Really."_

"_Okay." Rosalie took a deep breath and grabbed onto the kitchen counter for support. "Um, listen—I was wondering if you wanted to have dinner sometime. But if you're working nights, I guess that's not going to work. I mean … we could have lunch—or, breakfast. I –"_

"_Sure."_

_His easy agreement took Rosalie by surprise. "Really?"_

_He chuckled, raspy and deep. "Yes, really. I have Sunday and Monday off. How about dinner on Sunday?"_

"_Um … Yeah. That'd be fine."_

"_Great. Text me your address, okay? I'll pick you up at seven."_

"_Okay."_

"_Okay. I, uh, I've got to go back to sleep, I'm sorry. But, I'll see you Sunday, all right?"_

"_Yeah, okay. Uh, bye."_

_Rosalie set her cell phone on the counter, her heart drumming as though she'd run a mile cross-country. And yet, even as she sucked in deep breaths to calm herself, she felt the corners of her mouth twitch up into a smile._

* * *

"Bella!" Jasper's voice is strangely muffled, but obviously raised. _Where is he?_

I stand up, arching my cramped back. My gaze drifts out the window—it's still raining hard, the sky darkening as the afternoon begins to fade into evening. "Yeah?"

"Can you open the fucking door?"

_Oh, shit._

He's standing on the verandah, a basket of clothes in his arms, his eyes as stormy as the weather rolling in across the ocean.

"Baby," I say as soon as I've turned the handle on the glass doors. "Shit. I'm so sorry." I pull it open and step out of the way.

He ignores me, making for the laundry. I hear the thumps and bangs as he dumps the once-dry-now-wet-again clothes into the drier.

I feel awful, really. I'm so annoyed at myself for forgetting. It was the only thing he asked of me today and I got distracted and let it slip my mind. I move into the kitchen and flick the kettle on.

The drier clicks on, and Jasper comes back into the kitchen. His hair is darkened with the rain, his curls falling lank against his neck and shoulders, his white tee-shirt translucent across his shoulders and chest.

_Fuck._

He ignores me as I indicate the boiling kettle, opening the cupboard above the fridge and grabbing a bottle of rum. He sloshes it into the empty tumbler I left on the counter earlier.

He throws the deep-colored liquid down his throat, grimacing as he slams the glass back down.

"I'm sorry."

"Sure." His mouth moves, like he's chewing on his tongue, deciding whether to unleash his frustration.

"I guess I –"

"Lost track of time. Yeah, I know." He turns his back to me, his shoulders rigid as he presses his knuckles against the kitchen bench.

"J.J. –"

I want him to know that I know I fucked up, but he raises a hand, cuts me off.

"Just don't. Please."

Feeling the tears sting the corner of my eyes, I blink hard. "I'm sorry."

As I leave the kitchen, I could swear I hear him whisper, "Me, too."

* * *

Another night of tossing and turning, chasing sleep.

I finally drift off sometime around four in the morning.

When I wake, it's after ten and Jasper is long gone. The only sounds in the house are my socked feet moving across the wood floors and the rain drumming its many fingers on the roof.

I make the bed, then head to the kitchen prepare my espresso. The ritual is soothing, and then the thick, dark liquid explodes its complex flavors across my tongue, awakening and enlivening.

I shift the clothes out of the dryer, throw another load into the wash, and start folding the clean clothes away. It's my least favorite household task, but I'm still feeling wretched for my failure yesterday. I vacuum the floors—again, a task I despise but feel compelled to do today.

This is my penance. Atonement by domesticity.

By midday, the house feels like a padded cell. The rain suddenly seems unbearably loud, and my whole body feels like its vibrating with anxiety.

Impulsively, I run outside onto the front lawn, some strange madness pumping through my veins. I turn my face skyward and spin and spin and spin as the heavens pour down on me until I feel the rain has soaked all the way through to my bones and I'm covered with mud and grass from foot to knee and my clothes slap heavy against my skin.

And just as suddenly, the impetus deserts me and I sink to my knees—rain and tears mingling as they drip from my chin.

I force myself up, trailing muddy footprints through the house. I shower, the warm water causing my hands and feet to throb as feeling returns.

I'm just putting away the mop, the evidence of my stupidity wiped clean, when the doorbell rings.

I open it and throw myself into the arms of the man standing on my welcome mat.

"You okay, Cygnet?"

Dad's arms fold around me, and I bury my face against his chest, breathing deep. I can feel the pills of his faded sweater against my cheek as the scent of his aftershave—the same one he's been using for as long as I've been alive—closes around me, as familiar as his embrace.

"Sorry." I pull away, abashed. "Weird day."

Dad nods, but doesn't ask—not because he doesn't care, but because he knows I'll elaborate if, or when, I want to.

"Come on in."

I move out of the doorway. Dad picks up his guitar case and steps inside, toeing off his boots.

"Have you had lunch?"

He shakes his head, his moustache twitching. "Not yet."

I narrow my eyes. "What was Mom making?"

He chuckles, tugging on his ear with his free hand. "Something with lentils."

"Right. So you thought it would be a good time to visit?"

"I could have invited you over," he says with a wink.

I grimace, my nose wrinkling. "No, no. I'm glad you dropped by."

I feed Dad bacon and eggs for lunch, and he hums to himself as he shovels the greasy food away. We don't really talk, comments about the weather aside, until all that remains on his plate are smears of golden yolk.

"Thanks for lunch, Cygnet."

I smile at the nickname. My god-father, Harry, is responsible for that one. He called me "Baby Swan" for years, until Leah, his daughter, informed him with the seriousness that only a four-year-old can muster, that the proper name for a baby swan is a cygnet.

"Anytime, Dad." I indicate the guitar he set against the kitchen bench. "You gonna play for me?"

He taps his chin. "Maybe. Are you gonna make me a coffee?"

Once I place a cappuccino on the coffee table in front of him, Dad grins and starts to unbuckle his guitar case.

"Oh." He tosses a book onto the coffee table. "I got this for you."

"You did? Thank you."

I move to pick it up, but Dad bats my hand away.

"No way, Cygnet. I know you better than that—if you pick that up, I've lost you for the afternoon."

I giggle, shaking my head. "That good, huh?"

He points his plectrum at me. "Would I ask you to read nonsense?"

I shrug. "It's been known to happen."

"What? When? Name one book."

"Umm …" I mentally flip through the dozens of books Dad's given me over the last decade.

He has a point—the books I've hated were usually those given to me by Mom or Jasper.

"Aren't you gonna play for me?" I ask, nodding at the guitar.

Dad's fingers move across the pegs as he checks the tuning. "You're still a brat, girlie."

He plays me the three new songs he's written. I'm transported—feeling like my five-year-old self as his big voice fills my living room, as his clever hands caress the strings of his guitar.

"Wow. Amazing."

He ducks his head. "Thanks."

He strums a few chords. "Sing with me."

We meander through the music he raised me on, Carole King and Neil Young, The Beatles and Janis Joplin, Joni Mitchell and John Prine.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?" He continues to play, through softer now.

"How do you and Mom make it work?"

He doesn't look up but I see his forehead crease.

"You know—like, when you're writing songs and you get lost in your own head and you forget to take the trash out or something?"

Dad sighs. "It's hard. The girl I dated before your mother—I used to drive her crazy. She couldn't handle it. But your Mom, well, she understands—sort of. I mean, we had to work really hard, and I still piss her off all the time."

"Did you ever feel like you should just _stop_? Because it caused so many problems?"

His fingers stop moving and he sets the guitar down. His elbows move to his knees as he looks at me seriously.

"She would never have asked me to, Bella. It's, I mean … writing music is just … who I am. The songs are there—" he taps his forehead "—regardless. Even if I never played them, never wrote them down, they'd still drive me to distraction—more so, maybe, because I wouldn't be able to get them out."

He tugs at his ear, searching my face. I can see the concern in his dark eyes. "You and Jasper … uh, you're not seeing eye to eye about your writing?"

"Not so much the writing." I look at my fingers as I speak. "Just … I get so forgetful. When an idea grabs me—I'm just completely obsessive until I've pinned it down."

Dad nods, a small smile peeking out from beneath his moustache. "Yeah, you inherited that from me. Sorry."

I roll my eyes. "Don't be sorry. That's absurd."

He sighs, his barrel-shaped chest rising up then sinking again. "Well, I _am_ sorry that you were made to feel like you were strange, like your were abnormal. I should've stopped your Mom from taking you to all those quacks when you were a kid—should've known it was just your old man's creativity pounding through your veins."

"It's all right, Dad. Bygones and all that."

He picks up the book he brought with him, flipping through the pages absently. "Bella. I don't know what to tell you. All I know is … writing is part of you—a big part. And I don't think you should ever run from that. Yeah, there are times you have to muzzle it, when you have to grab a piece of paper, scribble a line across it and keep doing the grocery shopping. You have to compromise. Of course, you do—that's true in any relationship. But—" he shrugs, "—I don't think you should ever feel like you should give up something you're so passionate about to placate someone else. Especially not someone who loves you."

"Yeah, I guess."

Dad hoists himself to his a feet with a grunt. "Speaking of placation … I better get home."

I walk him to the door, my mind churning over his words.

"Give Mom a kiss for me. Tell her I'll come visit the day after tomorrow."

"Will do." He wraps me into a hug, kissing the top of my head. "Love you."

"Love you, too, Dad."

* * *

"Bea?"

"Mmm." No, Bella. _Make the effort_, I remind myself.

I set the book Dad gave me on the coffee table, it's covers spread like wings. I look up, finding his blue eyes, making sure he sees my attention. "Sorry, J.J. What's up?"

"I just—I can't do this anymore."

My forehead crumples in confusion. "Do what anymore, honey?"

"Us, Bella. I can't do this—" his finger waves between us, "—anymore."

He moves across the room, sliding my book to the side and sitting on the coffee table in front of me. Carefully, he reaches for my hands, ducking his head to look into my eyes.

I blink, shake my head, trying to make sense of his words.

"Look, I love you. I do, really. But you're not in this with me."

"I –"

"Please, babe. Let me finish, all right?"

I nod, waiting for him to continue.

"I love you, but I don't want half of you. I don't want the scraps you spare me—whatever's left over. You live, well, you live in your own head too much. You've got your own little world that you're lost in most of the time, and you're not here with me."

I think about arguing with him, about promising him that I'll try harder, that I'll write less, read less. I can almost see the words form in my mind, appearing as though typed—but I can't seem to force them from my lips.

"It's not fair, you know? It's not fair to me, getting your leftovers. I deserve someone who is in this with me—a partner."

He sighs, one of his sun-brown hands moving to tuck my hair behind my ear.

"I can't ask you to stop—I won't. It's who you are … I get that. It's like, I could sooner ask you to stop breathing. I understand that, now."

My smile is bittersweet. He does understand, it's just too little, too late.

"We just … I don't think we fit, Bella. And, I mean … I'm nearly thirty-four—I want marriage, kids, a house full of toys and noise and chaos. And you're not ready for that."

I shake my head, my eyes prickling a little.

"That's okay. It is. So I think … let's get real with each other. This isn't working, we want different things, and we're just going to end up resenting each other more and more."

I swallow, but the words still comes out as a croak. "Okay."

"Okay?" Jasper's eyebrows draw together as he processes my expression.

"Okay. Yes, you're right. We don't fit. We did, we fit too easily, almost. But we've … I don't know –" I shrug. Strangely, the words desert me when I need them.

"You're fine with this." His face goes strangely blank, and something insides me ignites. I pull my hands from his grip.

"What? Did you want me to fight? Did you want me to beg you to stay? Everything you've said makes sense. We don't fit anymore. We want different things."

He sighs, his head bowing. "No. You're right. I just … I hoped this—we—meant something to you."

"That's not fair, J.J." My voice is low, warning. "I love you, too. You know I do. But you're right. I'm not ready for kids. I'm not ready to get married. And yeah, I still haven't figured out how to balance life and writing, it's true. I'm a pain in the ass, I know. Fuck, I'm a pain in my own ass half the time. I'm forgetful, obsessive, and yes, sometimes reality takes second place. I'm working on it, but I haven't figured that one out yet."

The fight fades from his eyes. "You're right, I know. I just …" He shakes his head.

"Hey. I understand, I do. This kinda sucks."

"Yeah." He gives me half a smile. "It really does. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, too."

* * *

**A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who has read and reviewed and rec'ed and tweeted and been so wonderfully amazing. **

**Tam, YMFC, bb. x**

* * *

Also, it was the very lovely dreaminginnorweigen's birthday this week, so we wrote a little story for her. It's in my favorites, or you can read it here: s/8592081/1/Bring-On-The-Dancing-Horses

**Bring on the Dancing Horses. **When Emmett gets a second chance with the girl who ruled his high school dreams, he realizes getting into her bed is easy. Getting into her heart is another thing altogether. A collaborative O/S written for dreaminginnorweigen on her birthday.

By: BelieveItOrNot, IReen H., moirae, thimbles, and beta'd by Dragonfly336


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4.**

* * *

"_You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you." Ray Bradbury._

* * *

I think I should be weeping, suffused with melancholy.

I've read the books, seen the films. I should be—depending on the target audience—weeping silently on the floor of my shower, screaming in my sleep, or snot-sobbing and eating ice cream while watching chick flicks.

Which is just stupid, really. Eating ice cream when snot is involved is just going to compound the problem, and I hate chick flicks as a rule.

The crying, though—I should be doing that, right? Surely I should mourn the end of a relationship that spanned two years, and a friendship treasured for more than five?

I don't cry, though. Not really. A few tears escape as Jasper packs the last of his stuff into his car and hugs me, wishes me well. It took him two days to remove two years of togetherness from my house.

And then, I feel … nothing.

An emptiness, a stillness in my chest—not unlike the silence that overtakes the house as the pounding rain becomes a fine mist, and the wind runs out of breath.

I step out on to the verandah, tugging the sleeves of my sweater over my hands, and folding my arms across my chest. The sea is still grey, but the fight has gone out of it. Its surface has flattened out, and the waves toss themselves wearily to the shore before they are dragged back. The eternal ebb and flow seems exhausted, worn out, each set making less headway in its occupation of the shore as the low tide approaches.

When a shiver crawls up my spine, and my skin begins to prickle with cold, I wander back inside.

I pull on some socks, and open the refrigerator.

I close it again and flick the grinder on.

I pull half a dozen shots of espresso before I'm happy with one.

I take a sip and lose interest, dumping this one in the sink, too. I watch the dark brown liquid become gold-brown as the tap runs, diluting it, then forcing it down the drain.

I wander into the living room and collapse onto the couch, my eyes closing.

* * *

When I open my eyes, it's dark. I swing my feet to the floor, blinking in confusion.

I scramble across the couch, fumbling until I find the switch for the lamp on the side table.

It throws shadows across the walls, the low wattage bulb casting the room with a sickly glow.

Wandering back into the kitchen, I tell myself I should eat. I bypass a 'proper' meal, instead opting for some Turkish bread and baba ganouj—I can't be bothered to cook.

The microwave tells me it's almost eight o'clock. I was crashed out on the couch for nearly four hours.

Finding a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon in the cupboard, I pry the cork from the bottle's neck and pour a glass. I drink it where I stand, feeling nothing, seeing nothing, and hearing nothing but the sound of my throat swallowing around the wine.

I'm restlessly exhausted, weary but unable to be still.

I retrieve my laptop from the bedroom, and, not bothering to flick on any more lights, I power it up.

I waste hours trawling through tumblr, looking for images and words to inspire me, but the ennui is too deep-seated—the pretty pictures of kissing couples and quotes that tangle the heart-strings only make me squirm and fidget.

And then I whisper his name into the dark, and a scene begins to build around me.

* * *

_At three o'clock in the morning on the paediatrics ward, one would hope that nearly all the occupants would be drifting in dreamland. Of course, this was rarely the case in reality, and the dimmed ward was often filled with the whimpers, wails and cries of sick, injured and scared children._

_This particular Friday evening, however, was proving quieter than usual._

_Edward made his way through the ward as quietly as he could—though a hospital ward is never truly silent, even in the dead of night. He moved from bed to bed, taking temperatures where necessary, attending to the never-ceasing beeps of infusion pumps, and keeping a close eye on those children he was particularly concerned about. _

"_Edward?" _

_He paused, hearing Claire's voice, but unsure as to where her voicing was originating. As he turned a slow circle, she pushed aside the curtain that encircled one of the beds and stepped out, her mouth twisted with concern. _

"_What's up?" He kept his voice low._

_She sighed, running a hand over her grey-streaked hair. "Riley's just a bit frightened and upset. I was thinking of calling his mother."_

"_I'll have a chat with him, okay? Just hold off on calling her for a sec—she's a single mom, and she's got two younger ones at home."_

_Edward pulled the curtain aside and winked at Claire, who shook her head, a fond smile crinkling the deep lines around her eyes._

_In his bed, five-year-old Riley looked much younger, and so incredibly vulnerable. Edward's stomach clenched a little at the fear written so clearly on the little boy's face. He was sitting up, his eyes wide and almost black in the nighttime lighting. _

"_Hey, Riley, buddy. What's going on?"_

"_I miss Mommy."_

_Edward sighed, giving the little boy half a smile. He sat down in the armchair beside the bed, tucking the oversized teddy bear that had fallen to the floor in beside Riley. "I'll bet you do. It gets pretty lonely in here. You've been pretty brave though, haven't you?"_

_Riley nodded, his lip quivering. _

"_Your Mom, she had to take your sisters home to bed, huh?"_

"_Yeah."_

"_What are your sisters' names?"_

"_Bree and Rosie."_

"_Those are pretty names. I have a friend called Rosie, too."_

_Riley's eyes widened. "Really?"_

"_Yeah. Well, her name is Rosalie, but I think Rosie would be a nice nickname for her, don't you?"_

"_Is she pretty?"_

"_Yeah, real pretty."_

_Riley nodded, his little brows furrowed in thought. "Rose's are pretty. If your friend is pretty, too, then that's a good nickname."_

_Edward chuckled. "Good thinking, buddy. Hey, I bet my friend Rosie is older than your sister."_

_Riley giggled. "Yeah. My sister is only two!" His voice was rising with his enthusiasm, and Edward brought his finger to his own lips to remind him to be quieter._

"_So, Rosie is two—how old is Bree?"_

"_She's three."_

"_Wow. Your Mom must be real busy, huh?"_

_The little boy nodded, his lips pressed tight. "I help her, though."_

"_You do? That's awesome."_

_Riley's chest puffed up at the nurse's praise._

"_Hey, Riley. Do you think you're ready to go back to sleep now?"_

_Riley shook his head. "I'm not tired."_

_Edward smiled as the words were chased by a wide yawn. _

"_I know, dude. But your body, it needs rest so it can get healthy, you see?"_

"_Oh. And then I can go home?"_

"_Well, the doctor said you can probably go home the day after tomorrow. But getting lots of rest is still a good idea. Do you think you might be able to try to sleep for a bit? It's super late."_

_Riley considered his words, finally nodding. "Yeah, okay."_

_He wriggled back down underneath the stark white covers, his mouth rounding with another yawn._

"_All right, buddy. I'll be back to take your temperature in a little while, but you get some sleep, okay?"_

" '_kay."_

"_Goodnight."_

_Edward ducked out under the curtain, then paused and glanced back into the little cubicle. Riley was already curled around his teddy, his eyes heavy, each blink coming slower._

* * *

Dawn is lighting the sky when I finally wrench myself away from my computer and force myself to curl into my too-big, too-cold, too-empty bed. I wrap my arms over my pillow, disconcerted by the silence. My own breathing and fidgeting is magnified, filling the room in the absence of Jasper's soft snores and sighs.

I can still smell him—salt and musk and boy—on my sheets.

I toss and turn, unable to settle; my mind is weary but my body twitches its discomfort.

Eventually, I kick off the covers, flip on the bedside lamp and drag myself out of bed. I tear the sheets from the mattress, pull off the pillowcases, and slide the cover off the comforter. I bundle them up and throw them towards the doorway with a soft cry of frustration.

I drag out some clean linen from the closet and set myself to making the bed. It's mind-numbing, and really, so much fucking harder with only one pair of hands.

Finally, as the sky starts to streak with lavender and amaranth, I draw the heavy curtains and slide between the soap-and-sunshine-clean sheets.

I tumble into a dreamless sleep as the rest of the world wakes up.

* * *

While Edward works the nightshift, I become virtually nocturnal.

It becomes routine. The sun is high in the sky, moving west quickly, when I wake up. The silence of the house drives me outside, onto the seashore where it's never silent, where the whisper of wind over sand never ceases, and the roar of the tides never quiets.

It's getting too cold to spend much time in the water, but just being on the sand, the breeze carrying my hair and fluttering my skirt, invigorates and refreshes. I walk the length of the beach daily, taking advantage of the sun's waning warmth.

At sunset, I stand on my verandah with a glass of wine, and I let myself dream. Silly fantasies and grand desires, secret longings and wistful wishes—I give myself over to them, until I'm drawn back inside, moth to flame, and submerge myself in Edward and Rosalie's story.

These days, the house feels, somehow, less lonely at night. The silence that stifles and oppresses during the sunlit hours is welcome when darkness falls. There's a tranquility in the shadows of my living room, comfort in the clatter of my fingers across the keyboard of my laptop.

* * *

_His shift came to an end at ten in the morning on Sunday, but just before he clocked off, Edward stopped by Riley's bed. The curtains that enclosed the beds overnight had been pulled back, and the little boy was sitting up, a coloring book and crayons spread over the tray table. _

_As soon as he registered Edward's presence, his face lit up. "Edward!"_

"_Hey, buddy. How are you feeling this morning?"_

_Riley grinned, his cheeks almost hid his eyes as the delight stretched across his face. "I'm going to home today!"_

"_Aww, no. Really?" Edward pulled his mouth into a frown, though his eyes shone with warmth._

_Riley nodded, his eyes wide as he processed the nurse's expression of sadness. "Yeah. In two—" He held two fingers up. "—hours. I'm being dis … disco –"_

"_Discharged?"_

"_Yeah. Discharged."_

_Edward slumped into the armchair beside the bed. "Oh. But … Who is going to keep me company in the middle of the night, now?"_

_Riley frowned, clearly torn between his desire to be home, and his concern that his nighttime nurse was going to be lonely in his absence. _

_Laughing, Edward reached over and ruffled the boy's dark hair. "Don't worry, little dude. I'll miss you, of course, but it's super awesome that you're going home! I bet Bree and Rosie have missed you. And your mom will be so glad to have your help, right?"_

_Riley's head bobbed up and down. "Yeah. But the doctor says I have to be careful for a while."_

"_Definitely. You've gotta make sure you get well, so you don't have to come back here, all right?"_

"_Okay. Um, Edward?"_

"_Yeah?"_

"_Can I –" He hesitated, sucking on his bottom lip. "May I please listen to my heart, again?"_

_Edward grinned and pulled his stethoscope from around his neck. "Of course you can, champ."_

_Riley listened carefully to his own heartbeat, wonder evident in his dark eyes. When Edward let him press the chestpiece to his, much bigger, chest, he saw the spark of curiosity light in the boy's eyes. _

"_Your heart goes slower than mine."_

_Edward smiled. "Yeah, it does."_

"_But you're bigger than me, and your heart is bigger than mine."_

"_Yeah, that's right. My heart is bigger, so it can pump more blood every time it beats."_

"_Oh. So mine will slow down when I get bigger?" _

"_Yep. That's right."_

"_So, Rosie's heart will be even faster than mine?"_

"_You're pretty clever, buddy. That's exactly right."_

_Lifting the stethoscope from his ears, Riley handed the device back to Edward. "I think I want to be a nurse when I'm big."_

_Edward held his fist out, and Riley bumped it with his much smaller one, giggling. _

"_It's the best job in the world. Now, listen, I gotta go home and sleep, 'cause I've been working all night."_

"_Okay."_

"_I'm not on again until Tuesday night, buddy, so I won't see you again. But you take care, all right? And be good for your mom."_

"_I will." The earnestness on the little boy's face was endearing and Edward chuckled._

"_I'm sure you will."_

_Edward was still smiling when he drew his curtains against the morning sun and crawled into bed an hour later._

* * *

I'm dragged out of sleep by the shrilling of my alarm clock. I reach for it, hitting snooze with a groan.

My body clock is so out of whack—writing all night and sleeping all day—that I had to set an alarm to make sure I woke up in time to head to my parents' for lunch.

The shower wakes me a little, as does the long black I sip as I wander the house wrapped in my towel.

I step into an ankle length skirt dotted with flowers. I like the feel of the fabric as it swirls around my ankles. Pink camisole, navy cardigan, sandals on my feet. Hair loose, curling as it dries.

"You look so pretty!" Mom's first words to me are laced with surprise, and I frown as she fusses.

"I love this skirt, so feminine. Gorgeous." She grabs a handful of the fabric, examines it briefly, then pulls me into a hug.

"Thanks, Mom. Hi, Dad."

He grins at me over my mother's shoulder. "Hey, girlie."

Realizing I need to get it over and done with, I step out of Mom's embrace. I look between them, clasping my hands together and twisting my fingers. "Uh, guys. Listen, I need to tell you something."

Dad frowns, while Mom's eyes light up. "Bella –"

I hurry the words out before she can say something ridiculous. "Jasper and I broke up."

Dad nods and clears his throat. Stepping around Mom, he pulls me into his arms and hugs me briefly but fiercely. He kisses my head and steps back, his hands resting on my shoulders as he studies my face.

"You okay?"

I nod. "Yeah, I'm okay. It, uh, well … it's for the best. We wanted different things."

"Okay." He squeezes my shoulders, then drops his hands.

"Bella." Mom sighs, disappointment clear in her hazel eyes. "Honey …"

"Renée." Dad's voice is soft, but the warning is clear.

Of course, she ignores it. "Honey, why? He's such a wonderful man. I don't understand."

"He _is_ a wonderful man, Mom. I know he is. But, like I said, we wanted different things. He, well, he's ready to settle down and get married and have babies, and I'm just … not. Not yet."

"We had you at nineteen, and were married by twenty. You're twenty-three."

"That's still very young, Renée."

Mom sighs again, and I steel myself. I know she's confused, and upset—she really loved Jasper—and I'm not exactly surprised she doesn't understand.

"Was it because of your writing?"

"Partly," I admit. I want her to know I'm owning this, too. "You know how I can get—and that was hard on J.J."

"Oh, honey. Maybe you should have –"

"Mom. Please, stop. We'd been having a difficult time for a while. We've grown apart, and we've decided to move on. Would haves, should haves, and could haves—they're pointless, now."

"So, has he moved out, then?"

I nod. "Yeah, a few days ago. He's gone to stay with Charlotte for a while, but I think he'll move back into town when he finds a place."

Mom's eyebrows rise. "And what does Charlotte think of all this?"

I shake my head. She's just not listening.

Tucking my hair behind my ears, I take a breath and look her in the eye. "I have no idea. I haven't spoken to her, and to be honest, it doesn't really matter what she thinks of _all this_. It is what it is. J.J. and I made the decision that was right for us—not anyone else, okay?"

Dad puts his arm across my mother's shoulder, speaking softly into her ear. She rolls her eyes and huffs, but then nods.

"Okay, okay. Let's eat."

I send Dad a grateful smile, and he winks. "You want a beer, girlie?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Dad."

He nods, knowing I'm referring to more than the beer he is uncapping.

After lunch, Mom asks me to help her in the garden, pruning and whatnot before winter, and transplanting some vegetable seedlings she's cultivated.

She instructs me on settling the little plants—broccoli, spinach and kale, apparently—into the ground, then grabs her pruning shears and sets off to do … well, whatever it is she's doing with those fucking huge finger-chopper-offers.

I tuck the ends of my skirt into my panties and get to work.

It feels good, using my hands to do something new. Getting them dirty and feeling new textures under my fingertips.

I scoop out little holes in the dark, fertile soil and tuck the baby plants in one by one. I can see the attraction, why my mom spends so much time on her knees in the dirt tending to her plants. It's therapeutic. I can let my mind wander, daydream and still be productive.

When I've carefully settled all the little vegetable plants into their neat rows, I wipe the sweat from my forehead and brush the dirt from my fingers. I like the way it lines the tiny creases in my skin.

Pushing myself to my feet, I untuck my skirt and wander around surveying the greenery. Most of it is gorgeous and lush.

But there's this one plant, sprawling in the back corner, that makes my skin crawl. It's this creeping, crawling thing, spreading along the ground. The leaves look … they look like furry green tongues and they freak me the fuck out. I'm weirdly and unreasonably terrified of stepping on them—or worse, falling into them—and being licked and tasted by their chlorophyllic papillae.

I shudder, stepping backward, away from them.

"Mom? These plants are disgusting!"

She laughs, the sound ringing out above me.

She's up a ladder that's precariously balanced against one of the frangipani trees.

"I like them. They look like –"

"Tongues. Disgusting, furry, green tongues."

She giggles. "Exactly. Cool, huh?"

"Not really. They make me feel icky." I peer up at her. "What are you doing?"

"Taking cuttings."

Uh-huh. "Well, don't fall."

She laughs, shaking her head. "Yes, Mother."

I roll my eyes. "I finished planting those seedlings. Do you want me to do anything else?"

"No. Go play with your father."

Dad is in his music room, his guitar in his lap.

"You wanna talk, or do you want to sing?"

I smile. "Let's sing."

* * *

The sun is sinking into the sea when I get home.

Sometimes I get annoyed at real life intruding on my time, taking me from writing. But today, I think I needed it.

I feel … I don't know, rejuvenated, refreshed.

Clearing my mind of Edward and Rosalie for the day has me looking forward to diving back into their story tonight.

I shower, scrubbing the dirt from under my fingernails, watching it splatter against the white tiles, then disappear down the drain, with a sense of satisfaction, achievement. Writing is hard, draining work, but it doesn't make you dirty.

Once I'm clean, I throw my hair into a topknot, and slip on some clean clothes.

In front of my computer, I browse for clothes, ordering some pretty skirts and dresses. They're not my usual style, but I'm suddenly … I want to feel feminine, beautiful.

I shake my head at my own whimsy. _What's gotten into me?_

I shoot Jacob an email, telling him I hope to have the first chapter for him by early next week, then close all the windows I have open.

I pull up my story notes, take a sip of water, and start typing.

* * *

_Edward arrived at the address Rosalie had texted him ten minutes early. As he sat in his car, he ran his hands through his hair, confused by the nerves that suddenly decided to make themselves known. _

"_It's just a date. If it sucks, you never have to see her again." _

_Inside, Rosalie had discovered that a flight of butterflies had taken up residence in her belly. She fumbled with the earring she was trying to thread through her lobe, swearing as she dropped it into the sink. _

_She retrieved the small hoop, shaking her head at herself. Once it was successfully attached, she squared off with her own reflection._

"_It's just a date. He's a sweet guy. This can mean as much or as little as you want it to."_

* * *

I frown as I re-read the words I've just written.

Shouldn't they be like, excited about this? What the hell kind of romance am I writing?

* * *

_Confronted with Rosalie's front door, Edward felt somewhat nervous about applying his knuckles to such intricately carved details, and his sigh of relief was audible when he noticed the doorbell discreetly situated on the frame. _

_He pressed his thumb against it for a moment, then stepped back, straightening his shoulders, and fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt._

_While he waited for it to swing open, his eyes traced the floral design, amazed at the workmanship, the painstaking detail, and the sheer time it must have taken to create such a piece of art. _

"_Did you make your door?" He blurted, as soon as it swung open to reveal Rosalie's red-lipped smile. _

_She laughed, her nerves gone, spilled from her like an overturned wineglass. "I wish! Sadly, no—this isn't my work. It was a gift from the cabinet-maker I did my apprenticeship under."_

"_It's amazing." Edward realized, his cheeks heating, that he should probably be admiring not the door, but the woman who was holding it open for him. "You look lovely, Rosalie."_

_Her smile was easy. "Thank you. It's so nice to see you again."_

"_Are you, uh, are you ready to go?" _

_Grabbing her bag and a light jacket from the stand by the door, Rosalie nodded. "Let's go."_

_Rosalie was not at all surprised to find that Edward was in possession of impeccable manners—opening doors and pulling out chairs, his hand on the small of her back, never dipping lower than was acceptable. She remembered thinking in the bar that he seemed, in some ways, to belong to a different time._

_Men tended to respond to Rosalie in some reasonably standard, almost predictable ways. Though many were drawn in by her lush curves, and striking beauty, it tended to be her chosen career that became a stumbling block for them._

_Of course, there were those who simply shrugged, more interested in having her hands in their pants than what she did with them day by day. And there were those who assumed she was lacking in intelligence because she had pursued a job that—in their minds—didn't require her to use her brain very much._

_Then, there were those who were impressed by her occupation, but mistakenly believed she was, given the male-dominance of the industry, just "one of the boys." These men tended to annoy her with their crude language, and their unwelcome roughhousing and frequent intrusion into her personal space._

_Still, other men tended to feel peculiarly emasculated by her capability in a traditionally "manly" field, and treated her with a kind of sneering arrogance, questioning her femininity in response to their own insecurity._

_Edward, it seemed, was one of the small minority of men who simply believed her trade was her trade, and just part of who she was—like her blonde hair or her distaste for mushrooms. He found it interesting, was impressed by her obvious proficiency, but felt no compulsion to judge her character on any basis other than her character._

"_Do you get a lot of crap for being a nurse? You know, um, being a guy?" _

_Edward looked up from the menu he was studying, a slight smile curling his lips. If he was surprised or bothered by her question, he hid it well._

"_Not so much now. I've always wanted to be a nurse, since I was a child. In high school, I copped some flak." He shrugged. "But that's high school. You cop flak. If not for wanting to be a nurse … well, they'd have found something else to pick on, I'm sure."_

_Rosalie nodded—she knew all too well how cruel adolescents could be. _

"_What about you? Did you always know you wanted to be an ébeniste?"_

_She smiled, she liked the way he drew the word out, like he enjoyed simply pronouncing it. Eh-beh-neeste._

"_No, not at all. I went to college intent on studying architecture. I only did a year, though, before I realized I was much more interested in the smaller details—and that I'd had enough of studying for a while. I've always liked making things, I took woodworking class in high school. And so, I thought making furniture and such would be perfect."_

"_What piece are you most proud of? Out of all the things you've made?"_

"_I made my parents a breakfast table."_

_Edward was as surprised at the speed with which Rosalie answered, as she was that he'd asked the question in the first place._

"_It's not a particularly intricate work, just a small square table. It's quite a high one –" She held her hand to her ribs to illustrate. "– with two stools to match. But, my parents had a few trees cut down in their yard. So, I went through the entire process from scratch, basically."_

"_Whoa. That's –" Edward shook his head, "– that's amazing."_

"_Thank you."_

"_What about you? Have you had a favorite patient?"_

_Both affection and sadness passed over Edward's face, and Rosalie was stricken as she realized that he had possibly had to watch some of these patients—when their lives should have been just beginning—lose their struggle with illness or injury. _

"_Too many." He spoke softly, his voice intense with feeling. "Some of these kids—they're just amazing, you know? They've been handed a terrible lot, they fight these huge battles … but they're just kids. And so many of them have this … this immense dignity. They don't complain, they just keep fighting."_

_Pierced by his compassion, Rosalie felt a strange urge to take his hand, to squeeze it gently. Instead, she picked up her wineglass and took a small sip, watching as his smile returned, lighting his face. She found herself suddenly aware of the intensely green color of his eyes, and the faint crinkles that framed them. _

"_There are lots of wonderful moments, too." He said, oblivious to Rosalie's sudden fascination. "And some of the things the kids come out with—I could write a book. They're both hilarious and utterly profound." _

_He proceeded to share some of the more amusing anecdotes he had gathered in the few years he'd been working at Grace Memorial—as well as a few more revolting ones that had Rosalie shuddering in her chair. _

"_I think I'm glad the only mess I deal with is sawdust and varnish." _

_Edward laughed as Rosalie's delicate nose scrunched up with disgust. "It can definitely be a shitty job at times."_

_She groaned, shaking her head. "And you mean that quite literally, don't you?"_

"_Unfortunately, yes."_

_Over the duration of their meal, the conversation continued to ebb and flow like the tide. Music, films, politics, the correct way to prepare a cup of tea—every stone was carefully overturned and studied curiously. The couple found that though they disagreed on many points—for example, Rosalie insisted that the milk should be poured into the cup before the tea, which left Edward shaking his head in dismay—they found each other's ability to argue articulately and passionately both impressive and stimulating. _

_And when each conversation rolled on to its end, it wasn't awkward; it was companionable, light, easy. Neither Edward nor Rosalie were the kind to fill silence with meaningless babble, a commonality they truly appreciated._

_After dinner, the pair wandered along the boardwalk, gelato melting sticky over their fingers. Their conversation proved more interesting than their desserts, which were eventually tossed into a trashcan only half-eaten._

_Rosalie pulled some tissues and hand sanitizer from her bag, and their conversation barely skipped a beat as they cleaned themselves up._

_Edward glanced at his watch as they continued to walk, the sea breeze rushing fresh and salty through the night air. _

_Rosalie noticed his movement. "Are you tired?" _

_He laughed. "Not at all. I came off shift at ten this morning, so I only woke up at six o'clock this afternoon."_

_She laughed, but then clapped a hand to her mouth as a yawn followed her amusement. _

"_It is late, though." Edward murmured. "Almost midnight. Perhaps we should call it a night?"_

_Rosalie's smile was apologetic. "I've been up since five this morning, I'm sorry."_

_Edward chuckled. "Don't apologize—I'm keep strange hours when I'm on nights." _

_He offered Rosalie his arm, and she curled her fingers into the crook of his elbow, turning her head so he wouldn't see the silly smile that overtook her face._

* * *

The clock in the top right corner of my screen tells me it's nearly three in the morning.

I stand up and walk around, arching my back, swaying my neck from side to side.

I use the bathroom.

I make some peppermint tea that I don't really feel like drinking.

And then I force myself to sit down again.

My fingers flutter over the keys, my belly churning.

_Write it_, I tell myself. _Write it, now._

* * *

_Edward walked Rosalie to her front door, silence stretching between them. _

_Rosalie spun on her heel as she reached her front porch. "I had fun, Edward. Thank you."_

_She smiled as he ducked his head, his fingers finding his hair. _

"_Me, too." _

_Nerves creeping in, Rosalie started to search through her bag for her keys. She extracted them and fumbled as she sought to fit the key into the lock. As she pushed the door open, Edward grabbed her other hand and tugged her back to face him. _

"_I just …" He shook his head. "Can I …"_

_Rosalie's gaze fell to his mouth as his tongue darted out to wet his lips, his throat muscles moving as he swallowed._

_She nodded, letting him pull her close. She could feel the heat of his body, and noted in some part of her mind how fitting it was—the way his body radiated the warmth that sprang from his kind heart. _

_She turned her face up toward him, her smile small, as his hand moved to cup her cheek._

_She felt his breath warm against her mouth, then his lip_

* * *

I stop typing when my hands start shaking. My pulse is pounding in my ears, my mouth is dry. I swallow around the strange lump in my throat.

_No._

I shake my head, trying to make the image dissipate.

As my fingers moved over the keys, I wasn't visualizing a tall, curvy blonde pressing her lips against Edward's. It was not Rosalie filling my vision and twisting my tummy into tangled knots.

I saw—I'm seeing—a petite brunette, standing on her tiptoes, her face upturned in invitation. Her hair is gathered in a messy topknot, a floral skirt fluttering around her ankles, a cardigan wrapped around her shoulders. She sways slightly, stretching up to meet his kiss, until his hands move to circle her waist, to pull her close and steady her.

I shake my head, trying to chase the image away. I can't do this—I shouldn't.

And yet, I can't shake the image that flickers in my mind, nor the fluttery feeling it creates in my tummy.

My fingers move to trace my lips as I imagine Edward's kiss—his lips brushing mine, gently at first.

Again and again, small kisses, light pressure. An immediate addiction.

And then, hands cradling my face, he tilts his head and parts his lips.

He deepens the kiss and swallows me whole.

I'm lost.

* * *

**Tam = love.**

**shell x**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5.**

* * *

_'Books choose their authors; the act of creation is not entirely a rational and conscious one.' Salman Rushdie_

* * *

The room goes dark as I slam the lid of my laptop shut.

I squeeze my eyes closed, my fingers pushing circles at my temples. His face is all I see. The warmth in those sea green eyes sends a shiver racing down my back, like a droplet of ice-water sliding down the curve of my spine.

I shake my head and open my eyes. Even with them open, I can almost feel his lips on mine. My fingers flutter to my lips and away again.

_I'm just over-tired,_ I tell myself. _I just need to sleep. I'll feel normal in the morning—afternoon, whatever._

Somehow I find my way to my bedroom.

Another day is dawning, pink and lilac seeping over the horizon as I drag the curtains closed, shutting out the world, reality.

I crawl beneath the covers and dive into a desperate sleep.

* * *

His smile is easy and his eyes are warm.

His lips are warmer still, burning me, as they press against my own, as they trail across my cheek and down my throat. Scorching. Branding.

His kisses are everywhere. Peppered along my collarbone, pressed to my fingertips, creeping across my rib cage, crawling up my thighs. I can feel them everywhere at once, like every kiss I've ever received is being repeated, simultaneously.

I am nothing but his kisses.

Kisses brushed against my mouth; hard, sucking kisses on my neck; teasing kisses across my breasts. My body arches as sensation swamps me.

And when I feel his kisses between my legs, I know I'm drowning.

* * *

I'm gasping for breath as I wake, euphoria slipping away as consciousness returns. Confusion chases away the last vestiges of the ecstasy pulsing through me.

I pull my fingers from beneath the lace of my panties, bewildered and aroused.

A dream. It was a dream.

Just a dream.

I press my head back into the pillow, trying to sink deeper into its softness. The drawn curtains admit narrow rays of white light, and I watch them make their slow dance across the ceiling.

I dreamt of him. _Edward_. Of kissing him, being kissed by him.

I try to justify it—I can use this for Rosalie. I can write their front-door-first-kiss, and then she can dream of kissing him, of being kissed by him, consumed by him. As soon as the thought forms, my stomach turns to acid, and a shot of anger bursts through me.

_Mine._

I tell myself it's because it was such a personal experience. I don't want to share my dream with Rosalie—and therefore with everyone who reads her story. I want to keep it close, private.

Untangling myself from my sheets, I sit up, retying my hair on top of my head. My heart is still beating at double-time, and I'm sticky and sweaty from my bizarre dreams.

I shower away my dream, laughing bitterly at myself. It's probably just a result of the lack of intimacy between Jasper and I over the last few months; my body's frustration working itself out when my inhibitions are asleep.

I won't write today, I decide.

Determined to keep my mind far, far away from Edward Cullen, I keep my hands busy and my brain occupied. With angry, heavy beats pounding through my headphones, I mow the lawn, vacuum the floors, and launder every piece of clothing and linen I own.

It doesn't work.

He is on my mind constantly.

I don't understand why.

Why haven't I been dreaming of him kissing Rosalie? Sweeping Rosalie off her feet, romancing her, seducing her.

And when the fuck did this become his story anyway? This was supposed to be Rosalie's story. This was supposed to be Rosalie learning to love and trust—finding someone she could give her whole heart to. Someone who would show her that love doesn't have to hurt, that while it's a risk, it's one worth taking.

This wasn't supposed to be _his_ story. He wasn't supposed to steal the scene, capture my attention and my imagination so fully.

He wasn't supposed to become so real.

* * *

One of the things I've never wanted to take for granted is the fact that I'm in the unusual position where I can write all day—I've not had to take on other work to support myself while doing it. I know I'm one of very few, and I'm really damn lucky. So many writers have to work a nine 'til five job, and write in whatever scraps of time they have left. But between my grandparents' generosity, and having three novels under my belt, I don't _need_ to work. I won't for the next few years, and assuming I keep turning out novels with reasonable regularity, I may never need to.

I've never seen a downside to this—until now, when I'm trying desperately to _avoid_ writing.

I last a week. My house has never been tidier, my garden has never been better tended, and I've never watched so many trashy movies.

Finally, I can't put it off any longer. I need to write. My mind is so cluttered with fragments of ideas that I feel as though I may well go completely insane if I don't start putting them to paper.

I approach my laptop with the gingerness one might expect from a bomb diffusion squad. I pull up the documents for Rosalie and Edward's story, but I don't reread them. I can't bring myself to revisit their almost-kiss—not yet—so I decide to jump forward. Linearity is over-rated anyway.

* * *

_On Tuesday morning, Edward awoke to the sound of his alarm clock. He smacked it hard, and rolled over, confused as to why he had set it to wake him on a day that he knew, even in his sleepy-confusion, he didn't begin work until midnight._

_It took only a minute or two for him to remember, and he climbed out of bed, his heart beating heavy in his chest. He showered and dressed, his mind not focused on the tasks as he performed them. No, his thoughts were twenty minutes up the road, wrapped with concern around the most important woman in his life._

_When Edward arrived at his mother's front door, he offered up a silent prayer, took a deep breath, and raised his knuckles to the wood._

_As the door swung open, Edward smiled down at his mother, who pulled him straight into a fierce embrace. He bent his knees a little as he wrapped his arms around her. Even as the scent of her familiar perfume surrounded him, he could feel the increased frailty in her small frame. _

_When his mother released him, Edward blinked back the tears forming, and reminded himself that he needed to be strong. _

"_Thank you." _

_His mother's whisper made him shake his head._

"_Don't, Mom. I'd do anything –" He broke off and shook his head._

"_Edward, look at me." _

_Obedient, Edward met his mother's gaze—the same shade of green as his own. _

"_It's okay to be scared. I'm scared. You don't have to be strong, okay? It's all right. Whatever happens, we'll get through this."_

_Edward swallowed the lump in his throat and kissed his mother's forehead._

"_I love you, Mom."_

_She patted his cheek. "I love you, too."_

"_Are you ready to go?"_

"_Yes. Carlisle's in a meeting, but he'll be there as soon as he's done."_

_The drive across town was quiet. Edward stole glances at his mother as he navigated through the streets. Her eyes were closed, but her lips moved a little as she whispered along with Nina Simone._

_In the medical centre, Edward helped her into a seat, and took her warm hand, clasping it between both of his own._

_He was losing the battle with his bouncing knee when his stepfather caught up with them. The three of them sat in silence as they waited for his mother's name to be called._

"_Esme Cullen?"_

_Edward squeezed his mother's hand, and leaned over to kiss her cheek._

_He watched his parents as they walked into the doctor's office. He watched the way they drew strength from each other—his mother leaning into her husband, his arm curled around her waist. _

_Twenty minutes later, his parents emerged. Their faces were streaked with tears, but their smiles were wide and their eyes bright with relief._

"_All clear?" Edward asked. He needed to hear it confirmed, to hear the words spoken out loud._

_His stepfather nodded, as his mother said, "All clear. No cancer." _

_The relief flooding Edward's veins was dizzying, and his head dropped into his hands, tears spilling down his cheeks. Rather than experiencing a lightness in the release of tension, Edward rather felt as though his body had grown heavy and sluggish, as the stress he hadn't really allowed himself to acknowledge caught up with him in an instant._

* * *

My finger hovers over the backspace key.

What am I doing?

I don't understand where this has come from.

_Rosalie,_ I remind myself. _This is supposed to be Rosalie's story._

I resist the temptation to delete—_just keep writing, Bella_.

* * *

_Lillian Hale noticed something long-lost in her daughter's smile as soon as she walked through her front door. In fact, her entire demeanor seemed to have shifted—lightened—since the last time mother and daughter had spoken. It was there in the way she slammed the door a little too hard, kicked off her shoes a little too forcefully, cooed at the cat a little too loudly. Some of her self-imposed restraint had slipped away. There was a new easiness surrounding her._

"_How have you been, dear?" Lillian hoped her daughter would volunteer the circumstances that had led to her cheerful demeanor—though she was prepared to wheedle them out of her if necessary._

"_Fine, Mom. And you?"_

"_Oh, you know. Same old … I've missed you. Have you, ah, have you been busy?"_

_Rosalie nodded as she rooted around in her parents' fridge. "Yes. I've been ridiculously busy with this commission."_

_She sighed, pouring herself a glass of cranberry juice. "I think I'm going to have to take on someone. Maybe an apprentice. But I'm not going to be able to keep up with demand."_

_Lillian was somewhat disappointed that her daughter had immediately begun to speak about her work, but she was nothing if not persistent. _

"_Yes, well, I imagine that would restrict your social life—being so busy … You do have time to, ah, go out and meet people, don't you?"_

_Rosalie rolled her eyes, but her mother saw the twitch of her lips—the smile she was trying to contain. She waited, and was rewarded._

"_Yes, Mom. I had a date the other night, actually."_

"_Oh?" Lillian's disinterest was carefully delivered. "With whom?"_

"_His name is Edward."_

* * *

Ah, crap.

I've slipped up. I've slipped from third person limited to omniscient. I can't include what Lillian is thinking.

I resist the urge to slam my face onto the keyboard.

Instead, I save my work and walk away. I'm frustrated at how difficult Rosalie is to pin down. It's easy for me to get caught up in Edward's story—it flows with very little effort—while drawing Rosalie's story out is like pulling teeth.

I'm tired. That must be it. I'll try again tomorrow.

* * *

With the morning comes an email from a writer friend, and a plea for me to look over her nearly finished novel. It's a relief—a perfect excuse to step back from the story that on one hand refuses to be told, and on the other, seems to be overtaking my life.

It allows me to empty my mind of Edward and the other ensemble characters that seem so determined to work their way from my brain to my fingertips and into the words that scroll across my screen—and Rosalie, who just won't be drawn out. I switch my attention from the noisy cast assembled in my brain and focus on minutiae: commas and em-dashes, tense and syntax.

As I work, I try to readjust to rising with the sun, and sleeping only when it's dark. I set unnecessary alarms and attempt to drag myself out of bed before the morning has faded into afternoon.

Fall cools off and winter takes hold, the sea breeze turning icy as it sweeps down the coast. Most days are crystal clear, but the sun cannot warm the earth, which stubbornly tilts away from its heat.

About three months after Jasper moved out, and two weeks after I've finished combing through Victoria's novel—which turns out to be really fucking brilliant, incidentally—Alice lands on my doorstep.

The day is blue and still, the new year has started cool and pretty. She tugs a bright green wool cap off her short hair, which is sticking up in every direction as it grows back. She scrubs her hand through it, shaking her head ruefully.

"My head gets so fucking cold, now."

I smile a little, stepping aside to let her in.

"Sorry I haven't been around."

I shrug. "It's fine."

She opens her arms, but drops them, her expression strangely unsure. I tilt my head at her and pull her into a hug. It feels good to be touched, embraced, by someone who exists, who isn't locked in my imagination and haunting my dreams.

She pats my back, grandma style, and I step back.

"Do you want some coffee?"

"Are you writing? I, uh, I know I should have called first, but I was driving by –"

"I'm not writing today. And I was about to make coffee, anyway."

Her eyes widen, her lips part, my words eliciting surprise.

"Are you … I mean, I heard about Jasper. Are you okay?"

I nod. "Yeah, I'm fine."

I follow her into the kitchen. She slouches against the bench while I pull espresso shots and steam milk for her latté. We don't speak as I cut a few slices of the lemon bread I made last night.

"It was for the best, you know." I continue our front-door conversation, as I pass her a plate. "Jasper and I. We wanted different things. I mean, of course, I miss him. We were friends for a long time, even before we were together."

She nods, but doesn't say anything.

I pick up my demitasse and plate and move into the living room, Alice trailing behind me.

As she sits, her eyes rove around the room—she's cataloguing Jasper's absence, I presume. Noticing the pictures I've removed, or replaced, the lack of sand trailed across the wooden floors, the absence of wetsuits and surfboards on my verandah.

"So, uh, how have you been, Al?"

She shrugs, forcing a smile that slips off her face too easily. She takes another sip of her coffee before she answers. "Okay, I guess. Things have been pretty quiet."

"Are you still working at the hotel?"

She shakes her head, her lips pursing. "No, that was just for the summer. Things got too quiet in fall so they couldn't keep me on. I'm doing a bit of work as a nanny, and then I just got taken on at the bar in town, so I'll be working there a couple of nights a week."

"Cool." Alice doesn't exactly need to work—when her Dad passed he left her an enormous inheritance—but she likes to, says she needs to feel useful, even if it is doing odd jobs here and there.

"I'm thinking of going back to school this year."

"Yeah? That's awesome."

She smiles a little. "Yeah, I dunno. I just—I need some kind of direction or something."

"Will you change your major? It was gender studies, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, it was, but I think I'm going to look into becoming a teacher."

"Yeah? High school, or –"

She mock-shudders. "No, definitely not. Preschool, or maybe elementary school."

"You'd be a great teacher, Allie."

This smile is bigger and more genuine. "Thanks."

It occurs to me that this will mean Alice, too, is going to be moving away—even if it is just temporary. Loneliness trickles into my heart, but I wipe it away. She's got her life to live, and besides, it's only January—she wouldn't be going anywhere until after next summer.

"So, anyway. What are you working on?" Alice's question tugs me from my thoughts.

"Uh, I'm writing a story about this girl, Rosalie, and this guy, Edward. Or I'm trying to. I'm struggling with it at the moment."

"Edward?"

I nod, and Alice scrunches her nose. "That's … well, it's an unusual choice, isn't it? Kinda old fashioned."

I feel myself becoming defensive immediately. "Well, he's a little Old World, really. I think it fits him."

"Tell me about him."

"He's a nurse. A paediatric nurse." I'm weirdly reluctant to share him with Alice, and it confuses and worries me. I force myself to keep talking. "He meets Rosalie, kind of randomly, at a bar, and they find they get along really well. Rosalie's a woodworker. And she's been hurt really badly before, so she's a little wary of him …"

I sigh. "I don't know. It was supposed to be a story about Rosalie. But I'm finding he keeps taking over."

Alice blinks at me. "Taking over? But it's your story. You write the words, Bea."

For about three seconds, I think about telling her that I'm not sure that I do. That maybe the words choose me, and I just type them. That I'm just a conduit for a story that already exists, somewhere in the universe, and all I do is put it in words and make it accessible.

And then I shake my head and smile. "Yeah, I know. It'll come together eventually."

We chat for a while longer, our conversation wandering aimlessly down the path of shared memories, until Alice decides she needs to head home. I walk her to the door and hug her tightly, resolving not to let it be another three months before I see her again.

The door has barely clicked closed when my cell starts to ring.

Shaking my head, I jog back into the living room, grab it up and slide my finger across the screen.

"Hey, Mom."

"Hi, sweetheart! How are you?"

"Well, thanks. What's up?"

"Oh, nothing much." _Bullshit. _I can hear it in the sing-song tone of her voice—she's got some brilliant scheme hatching.

"Just thought I'd call and see how you were doing."

"Not so different from yesterday." _You know, when I had dinner with you and Dad?_

"That's lovely. Listen –" _And here we go _… "– I ran into Janie Cameron yesterday."

I tuck the phone under my shoulder as I gather up the plates and mugs from the coffee table. "Uh-huh."

"Do you remember her son, Jared?"

"Uh, yeah. He was good friends with Seth in high school."

"Right. Well, he's moved back to town."

"Okay."

Mom pauses, but I'm not giving her anything. Instead, I start stacking the crockery in the dishwasher—possibly more forcefully than is necessary.

"We-ell, Janie did mention he doesn't know very many people in town."

"Huh." I slam the dishwasher door closed.

"Anyway, I gave her your number. I, well, I figured you wouldn't mind—and it would be nice for him to have some friends in town."

"Mom!"

"Honey, I love you. But I know you, and it's … it's just not good for you to be hanging about in your house, by yourself, doing nothing all day."

Leaning against the fridge door, I bang the back of my head against it a few times. "Mom, I love you. And I know you, and I appreciate that you're concerned. But firstly, I don't do nothing—I work from home, I write. That's not the same as doing nothing. And secondly, I'm not always alone."

"Cygnet –"

"No seriously, Mom. Alice was just here. I was literally closing the door when you rang."

"Oh … Well, that's—that's great. I'm glad."

I smirk—too soon.

"But it wouldn't hurt for you to make a few more friends."

"Mom …"

"Bel-laaa."

I huff, and the back of my head connects with the fridge a few more times. "You know what? Fine. If he calls me, I'll hang out with him. But I'm not calling him."

"Okay, honey. Good. I'm glad."

"Bye, Mom."

I end the call without waiting for her goodbye. I set the stupid device down on the kitchen bench. My fingers drum against the stone, miming typing.

Despite my telling Alice that I wasn't going to write today, I find myself drawn back to my computer. I drag up all my documents and notes, skimming across the last sections I composed.

I remember what I almost told Alice, that I don't know if I'm at all in control of the words that appear on my screen every time I sit down to write. Maybe I'm just fingers on keys, and every story I've ever written already existed somewhere—I just collected the words and funneled them into their right order so that they could be shared.

Part of me thinks this makes sense, the other part thinks it sounds utterly pretentious. I mean, thinking of myself as some kind of appointed story-telling vessel? I'm quite sure my words just aren't that important.

But I do decide that if Edward's going to take over this story—I might as well let him. I may have intended to write Rosalie's story, but for whatever reason, his is the voice I hear more clearly.

* * *

_Edward loved his job, and he put his heart and his soul, and nearly every joule of energy he had, into doing it, and doing it well. It was easy for him to do so—to not count the personal cost—when he saw the impact his care made in the lives of the children and families he dealt with day by day._

_And though the constantly changing shifts he worked made having a social life difficult, he had a number of close friendships—particularly those he had developed with certain colleagues. _

_His friendship with Garrett had come about easily enough, the two men joking they needed to stick together—outnumbered by women as they were in their vocation. After working the same roster for several months, they started grabbing a coffee—or beer, depending on the hour—after work. Sometimes it would be just the two of them, and sometimes other colleagues who were also clocking off for the evening, or morning or afternoon, joined them._

_However, the simple camaraderie between them had been cemented as one of those as a lifelong, brothers-in-arms, sort of friendships, at the bedside of an eight-year-old girl. _

_Tanya had spent much of her short life in and out of hospitals. She had battled acute lymphocytic leukemia for several years, but her small body was losing the fight. Chemotherapy and bone marrow transplants had gifted her parents several treasured years with their precious daughter, but her body had stopped responding to treatment._

_Edward and Garrett were working night shifts in the last week of Tanya's life. _

_In the relative still and dark of the ward at night, the little girl would often start awake. Even as her life slipped away, even through the pain they couldn't quite alleviate, even when peaceful sleep was denied her, Tanya maintained a quiet dignity and gentle humor that drew her caregivers to her bedside. The two nurses and the girl's mother were found on a few occasions talking softly in the early hours of the morning, concocting fantastical tales and dreams—anything to draw those last few smiles to the sweet child's lips. _

_And when she slipped from this life into the next, the two men were unashamed as they wept—both for the loss of the child, taken from this life before she'd truly been able to live it, and for the members of her family who would feel so acutely the absence of their daughter, their sister. _

_Leaving the family to grieve in private, Garrett and Edward relied on each other to pull themselves through the remaining hours of their shift, and to turn up again the following day. In doing so, they had solidified the bonds of a friendship that would prove crucial in helping them both to continue on in a vocation that was alternately unbelievably rewarding, and utterly heart-breaking._

* * *

Exhausted and emotionally drained, I click save and power down my computer. My eyes are achy from staring at the screen, and from the tears that threatened as I worked my way through several different articles on childhood leukemia.

I check my phone, rolling my eyes when I see another missed call from Mom. It's almost two in the morning, though, so I'm not about to return it now.

My clattering around seems uncomfortably loud as I take my glass and plate to the kitchen, and flick off the lights on the way to my room.

My bed is too big. Even with the added weight of my winter blankets, there's too much space. I feel like I've been cast adrift when I crawl under the sheets. The vastness of the ocean makes me feel free, but the extra space in my bed makes me feel small and insignificant.

I tug my bundle of blankets in, rolling myself into them. I grab an extra pillow and stuff it beside me. My heart cries out a little as I do so, lamenting the fact that I'm reduced to snuggling myself against a bag of goose-down in my aloneness.

Alone.

The word itself seems to take on its own presence, hanging heavily over me. It's oppressive, suffocating.

It's everywhere, crowding me—from my too-big bed, to my mom's suddenly incessant phone calls. Everything, everyone, seems determined to remind me how fucking alone I am.

* * *

His scrubs are blue and his smile is familiar, though I know I've not seen it often.

It's also just for me, a secret smile, and it warms me, heat spreading from where it pools in my belly.

"Hi there." His voice is low and teasing, and it makes my knees shake a little.

"Hey."

He steps a little closer, ducking his head, his lips at my ear. "I've missed you."

"Me, too. I've missed you as well." The words come out shaky. I'm nervous to admit this for a reason I can't pin down.

His lips find my neck, and I feel them stretch into a smile against my skin.

My fingers crawl beneath his shirt, the skin of his back is hot and smooth under my palms.

His hands slip beneath my shirt as his lips trace my jaw. I shriek and try to squirm away from him—his fingers are cold, a shocking contrast to the warmth that envelopes me.

He chuckles and pulls me closer. "Sorry."

I melt against his chest, feeling the vibrations of his speech travel through me. "How have you been, pretty girl?"

"Okay, I guess."

He pulls back, his hands moving to cup my face. His green eyes are soft with concern. "You guess?"

"Just lonely. Same old."

His lips find my forehead. "I'm here now."

We dissolve into naked skin and roaming hands, gasping breaths and hard, needy kisses.

I'm almost embarrassed by the noises that push their way out my throat, but Edward's echo louder and deeper. The sound of his want drives me crazy. His fingers are everywhere at once, dipping between my legs, teasing my breasts, cupping my chin. I squirm closer, wanting to diffuse into him.

And then he's gone, and the throbbing between my thighs is empty-achy and my face is wet with tears and sweat.

Just another dream.

Another morning that sees me waking, pulsing with need.

Sometimes I wake mid-orgasm, arched with pleasure, other times, with the residue of my climax tingling in my veins. And sometimes, like this morning, I'm woken on the cusp, only to have it slip from my grasp, leaving me empty and confused.

I throw an arm across my eyes as my sob echoes in the early morning stillness.

I sit up, climb out of bed, wipe the moisture from my face. I can't stay here, tangled up in emptiness.

I move slowly, pulling clothes out of my dresser: panties, bra, stockings. I walk to the closet to find a skirt and blouse, but my mind is already back with Edward.

Why does he continue to haunt me? I made the story his, I'm letting him speak. He shadows my every waking thought, why does he need to haunt my dreams as well?

Understanding washes over me, and it's like diving into the frigid ocean in the middle of winter. Cold grips me everywhere at once, and I sink to the floor. My whole body is trembling. I clamp a hand over my mouth as shock cascades through me.

My stomach is dropping, my limbs are heavy, and my head is spinning—like I've just stepped off the Gravitron mid-ride.

I'm in love with Edward Cullen.

I'm falling in love with a man that does not exist—a figment of my own imagination.

I'm so damn pathetic.

He is not real.

He is not a sweet, kind-hearted nurse. He is not handsome. He is not a gentleman.

He doesn't exist.

So … what? I'm in love with my own words? How fucking self-indulgent.

I won't write it. Not one more word.

I can't. I can't let this madness continue.

* * *

I decide to write Jake the fucking YA novel he so desperately wants.

I shoot him an email, telling him I've changed my mind, that I'll stick to what I do best, that I don't think I'm cut out for romance after all. His reply is tempered—he insists he has faith in my ability to write whatever the hell I set my mind to, but I can also sense his relief that I'm sticking to what I know—and what he knows will sell.

But first, I take a couple of days away. Away from writing, away from the little town I love so much, but suddenly seems to be closing in on me.

I head up the coast, into the city. I spend a few days just trying to keep busy, exploring shopping malls and libraries, art galleries and coffee shops.

As I wander through a local artist's exhibition, I have to laugh. I'm struck by the irony that it's now, when Jasper is gone, that I have all this time that I don't _want_ to spend writing. When there's no one to inconvenience with my immersion in my stories, I have no story to tell.

_There is one story_ … I shove the thought away, impatient. His voice is so fucking insistent, but I don't want to hear it.

Alone, and lonely, I turn to my oldest friends. Books.

I buy dozens of books, and I read. I read everything and anything. Children's books and erotica, horror and romance, historical fiction and science fantasy, I read it all. I read to find company and comfort in the characters I meet within their pages.

And I read to push Edward from my mind, to fill my consciousness with other characters, trying to squeeze him out by populating my imagination with as many characters as I can.

* * *

"Yo, Bea!"

"Seriously, Jake?"

"What?"

"Nothing. What's up?"

"Oh, not a lot. Just, you know, checking in with all my favorite authors, seeing where they're up to. Making myself useful and all that."

I roll my eyes. "Uh-huh."

"So …"

"Nope, not sewing. I'm writing."

"Ugh, Bea. You need to stop hanging out with your old man. You're too young for Dad jokes."

"Bite me."

He chuckles. "Nah, Maria would kick my ass. So, are you actually writing?"

I sigh. "I'm trying to."

"Stop trying and do, Bea. I need something—anything."

"Yeah, well, I don't have anything for you yet. You're just going to have to be patient."

He is silent for a minute or two. My gaze trails across the ocean as I try to ignore his huff of impatience. "Bea –"

"I'm going to write about mermaids." My palm lands on my forehead as soon as the words escape my mouth. _What the fuck? Mermaids?_

"Mermaids."

"Mmm hmm."

"You're going to write about mermaids?"

The incredulity in his voice ignites the spark of stubbornness. "Yep. Mermaids."

I hear a dull thump, and I imagine his head meeting his desk. The thought makes me smile.

"Fine, Bella. Write about your damn mermaids. Can I have an outline within the month?"

"Sure." _Why not?_ Whether or not it's an outline of a story worth reading will be another thing.

"All right." I hear him tapping at his computer, muttering about _fucking mermaids_. "I'll leave you to it."

"Thank you, Jacob." My voice is teasing, I'm taking some perverse satisfaction in making him squirm.

"Yep. Bye."

* * *

_Fucking mermaids. What the hell was I thinking?_

Determined, I square off with the blank document in front of me.

My spine starts straight and stiff, but curls forward under the weight of unanswerable questions.

What the hell am I going to write? What story do I have to tell? About freaking mermaids, no less.

I remember reading something once said by someone I can't recall—"A book is the only place in which you can examine a fragile thought without breaking it, or explore an explosive idea without fear it will go off in your face."

And I think about my own adolescence, and what dangerous and delicate ideas I explored in the books I read. I try to remember the stories that spoke most to me, the ones that I still carry with me, the ones that changed me, became part of me.

And I wonder what I could possibly have to say?

Who would I even write for? I don't even know any freaking teenagers.

And then I think about blonde hair and pink eye shadow and lemon frosted cupcakes.

Nettie.

I think of her, stiff and obedient as she sits on Charlotte's couch, then giggling and blushing in the dappled light under the frangipani tree.

My fingers start to fly across the keyboard.

I write about a girl—Tallulah—who wants to be a mermaid. She is so at home in the water that her body starts to transform as she whiles away her days in the waves. Her fingers and toes start to develop webbing, gills start to take shape on her neck, and on the skin of her thighs, the faint outlines of scales begin to appear.

Her friends tease her. Her mother is furious.

She tries to stay away from the water. The longer she spends on land, the more the changes her body underwent start to fade. She can be "normal" again.

But the water keeps calling to her.

She sneaks away, day and night, and sits on the end of a jetty, her toes dangling just above the water, and she cries for the freedom she finds in the cradling arms of the ocean.

A mermaid-boy—Marius—smells her tears as they land in the sea, and he comes to the surface. They talk, they become friends. She keeps stealing away to visit him. Sometimes he comes alone, sometimes he brings his friends.

She feels at home with them, welcomed.

She feels drawn back into the sea, but she's scared.

Eventually, she has to choose between what her mother and her friends tell her she "should" be, and who she truly wants to be. She has to choose between the life she's expected to have, and the life she truly wants—the life that's chosen her.

* * *

Pages and pages appear on the screen before me as my fingers dart around the keys. Words flow into sentences, which become paragraphs, the threads weaving together the tapestry of Tallulah's story.

I go for days without showering, pausing only when my bladder demands relief, or my stomach growls its need for nourishment, or when my eyelids become so heavy I can't even read the words appearing on the screen.

I send off pages and pages to Jacob, who is excited to finally have something substantial from me. He carries on like a ridiculous fangirl for the most part, gushing and flailing. Though he does, at least, make some useful suggestions for changes and revisions.

Spring starts to break through. Shoots and buds appear, color seeps across front lawns and the sea air becomes laced with floral scents. I spend the days immersed in Tallulah's story, only vaguely aware of the speed of time.

But it's not Tallulah and Marius I dream of.

I've banished him from my waking thoughts, but it is still Edward who haunts my dreams.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who is reading, reviewing, following, favouriting, tweeting, etc. You guys are just the best.**

**Tam, you're the loveliest. Thank you.**

**Shell x**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6.**

* * *

"_I write for the same reason I breathe—because if I didn't, I would die." __Isaac Asimov_

* * *

Spring starts to bloom, riotous color splashing its way across the neighborhood gardens, by the time I send off a complete draft of Tallulah's story—tentatively titled _Under the Frangipani Tree_.

While I wait for Jacob's editorial letter, I start revising the progress I had made on Rosalie's story.

I remove Edward, because he's clearly not going to cooperate—and, honestly, maybe I don't want him to—and find her a more suitable romantic interest. _Michael Newton._ He's kind of … well, bland and boring, really—a cookie cutter type. He's a lawyer or an accountant—something he and his family would describe as "respectable." He's safe. Rosalie feels this and agrees to date him.

I start to see her story unfolding. She truly belongs with Emmett, but he fucked up and broke her young heart. Michael's the guy she needs to be with to rebuild her confidence. The non-risk-taker who makes her realize, that while love is a risk—it's worth it.

I tap my fingers absently, as I scroll through the stuff I've already written, pausing periodically to add notes for myself through the document.

_*Michael is "nice," but boring as hell. As Irina notes, there's no "spark." Rose dates him because he's safe, no spark to scare her away._

_*She grows uneasy with his "safeness," starts to feel stifled. He can't be spontaneous, can't deviate from a plan. Maybe they have agreed to go to a baseball game, but Rosalie sees there's an art exhibition she really wants to visit. Fight over his inability to deal with changing plans, etc._

_*Sex is good, but boring. No inventiveness, no passion. He's not a selfish lover, just very bread-and-butter._

_*Emmett needs to regain her trust—prove he's changed … How?_

Already, this story is starting to take shape. I try not to get too lost in it, though, knowing I'm going to have to pull myself back out to edit _Under the Frangipani Tree._

* * *

The sunshine is becoming stronger, warmer, staying up later. The sea is bluer. There's a briskness, an invigoration that seems to vibrate through the air—like the very molecules it consists of are moving faster. Anticipation, a held breath, a swimmer crouched over the starting blocks.

The beach becomes a little busier, locals taking advantage of the quiet now, before the tourists start to arrive for the summer. Dogs bound across the white-blonde sand chasing sticks and balls, sending clumps of it flying as they skid to a halt.

I'm waiting, too. I tell myself I'm just waiting for Jake, waiting for him to finish up so I can start revising.

I don't convince myself.

* * *

_Page 44: This metaphor makes the reader think too hard. You're clouding the meaning, when it should actually help the reader understand what Tallulah is feeling. Either lose it, or rework it with a more familiar image._

I huff, but my frustration is directed at myself, not Jacob. He's spot on.

_Page 63: Do you think "scream" is the appropriate verb here? Consider "shout" or "yell"—screaming carries a connotation of being high-pitched, which I'm not sure is what you want._

Again, he's right. Jacob drives me crazy at times—particularly when he's demanding a new book and my well of ideas is empty—but he's very good at his job.

_Page 84: Lose the adverb. The gentleness in his touch is implied._

The ringing of my phone startles me and I look around, trying to locate it. I can hear it, but I'll be damned if I can see the stupid thing. Eventually, I find it under a sheaf of papers I dumped on the floor a few hours ago.

"Hello?"

"Bellaaaaaaa."

I set the phone on my desk and put Alice on speaker. "Hey, Al."

"Whatchya doin'?"

"I'm going over the editorial letter Jake just sent me."

"Sounds riveting."

My highlighter moves across another line of text. "Eh, it's not so bad."

"If you say so. Anyway … what are you doing tomorrow night?"

I squint at the calendar tacked to the wall opposite me. Unsurprisingly, most of the squares are blank.

"No plans."

"Great. Soooo …"

_Ah shit._ "What are you up to Allie?"

"Nothing!" Her voice turns whiny. "Bella, why do you always assume I'm _up to something_?"

I chuckle. "Because there were _too_ many Os in your _so_."

"Don't start with me, Casper."

"Casper?"

"Yeah, you sounded like a ghost with all the oooing."

"Right. You're trying to distract me. What do you want?"

"Ugh, Bea. It's lovely to speak to you, too. Maybe I'll go with Oscar instead."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm a grouch. What do you want?"

"Well. I know this guy and I was thinking that you guys would be pretty awesome together."

_And there it is._ "Alice –"

"Aww, come on. He's totally fuckhot and really sweet. I think you'd like him."

I cap my highlighter and throw it down, rocking back in my chair. My fingers smoosh my cheeks as I pout. "I don't know."

"Come on. It'll be good for you."

Alice can be really fucking annoying once she's decided something is a good idea. She's kind of like my mom in that way.

_Oh. _

I smirk to myself. "I'll do it. On one condition."

"Which is?"

"Mom wants me to get in touch with this guy who I went to school with—he's just moved back to town. So, I'll call him, and all four of us can go out. It'll be great."

Alice is silent and my smile grows. I've got her.

Finally, she huffs out an agreement, and we decide to meet for a late dinner and a few beers. Alice doesn't want to go to The Happy Gull, which is understandable as she's working there two nights a week, so we settle on Sam's, which is fine by me—it's a little more bar and a little less dive.

Once Alice finally hangs up—entirely unsuccessful in her attempt to make me feel guilty for turning a blind date into a casual hang out—I call Mom and ask her to get me Jared's number.

Mom tries to play it casual, but ends up failing miserably. "Oh, honey! I'm so thrilled you're stepping out a bit. I think this will be good for you."

"Uh-huh. Can you just call Janie and then text me, please?"

"I'll do it right now."

_Of course she will._ "Thanks, Mom."

And sure enough, ten minutes later, she texts me his number, bracketed by those damned smiley face emoticons she's just figured out.

My conversation with Jared is pretty much exactly the awkward, stilted chatter you'd expect with a guy you haven't seen in five years—and even then, was only a friend of a friend.

He seems relieved when I invite him to hang out "with a few other friends;" which gives me the feeling I'm not the only currently unattached child with a not-so-subtly scheming mother.

"So, we're going to meet at Sam's for a late dinner and a few beers," I tell him. "Maybe around eight o'clock—does that work for you?"

"Eight is fine. But, um, where's Sam's? I don't remember any place by that name, and I don't think I've driven past it."

"Oh! Right. I'm an idiot, sorry," I say, rolling my eyes at myself. "It is pretty new—it opened maybe a year ago—but it's actually called Brews on Bayside."

"Oh, okay then. Yeah, I've seen that place—I wanted to check it out, actually."

"Yeah, it's a cool little spot."

"So … is Sam the owner or something?"

"No." I giggle. "Sam is the crazy old dude that took to busking outside it when it first opened. He was there every night for about three months. Embry—who actually owns the place—had so many run-ins with him, trying to get him to go play elsewhere."

"That bad, huh?" He chuckles, deep and rumbly.

"Not exactly. He was a pretty damn good musician, actually. Played mean flamenco guitar, and had a decent singing voice. The problem was that between songs he'd start screaming at all the patrons as they were going in. Stuff about how they'd all pay five bucks for a pint, but wouldn't drop a dime in his case."

"Yeah, I can see how that would've gotten annoying," Jared says.

"Exactly. Eventually, he was convinced to move on, but locals had already started referring to the place as Sam's, and it's just kind of stuck."

"Awesome. Hey, listen Bella—I've gotta run, but I'll see you tomorrow night."

"Sure thing. See you then."

As I throw the phone back onto the pile of papers beside my desk, I may or may not wiggle my bum around in my chair while I flutter my hands, in some kind of goofy seated happy-dance.

Successfully thwarting both Mom and Alice, while securing myself a much-needed night out—because honestly, I do need to make myself leave the house and interact with real people—I'm pretty damn proud of myself.

* * *

When I arrive at Sam's, five minutes after eight o'clock, there's a tall guy lounging against the wall near the entrance.

Eric, I presume.

Even in the evening gloom, I can tell he's hot. Not handsome, not gorgeous, he is, as Alice promised, hot … and it appears he knows it. The neckline of his tee-shirt is cut just a bit too deep, and it clings to his muscled frame just a little too tightly. His board shorts hang low on his hips, and when he lifts an arm to run his fingers through his hair, I can see the definition in his abdominal muscles.

I approach him kind of warily. "Uh, hi. Are you Eric?"

"Yeah." His teeth gleam as he smiles. Weirdly, I'm reminded of a crocodile. "And you must be Isabella."

I push away the bizarre image. "Bella, or Bea, is fine."

He winks—his dark eyes are playful as he smirks at me. "Can I use both, Bella-Bea?"

His hand is hot, clammy against mine.

I laugh as I extricate my fingers from his grip. "Sure. Uh, is Alice here yet?"

He shakes his head, his almost-disturbingly white teeth on show again. "Nah. But it's Alice. She'll probably be at least fifteen minutes late."

A new voice cuts across my laugh. "Bella?"

"Jared, hi!"

"It's been a long time." He presses a kiss to my cheek. "You look great."

"Thank you. It's great to see you, again."

Jared's about six inches taller than Eric. He's stocky, strong, but without the obvious gym junkie lumps and bumps. They're essentially dressed the same—though Jared's clothes are looser, more casual.

I cock my head as I study his tee-shirt.

_Schrödinger's Cat. Wanted: Dead and Alive._

I giggle, and he grins. "Right?"

"I love it."

Jared chuckles, his hand tugging on his ear, while Eric looks between us, less than impressed.

"Share the joke?" Alice's voice makes me jump and I stumble into Jared.

"Shit! Sorry."

He laughs, holding my elbows until I regain my footing. "No worries."

"So, what's funny?" Alice looks at Eric who just shrugs.

"Jared's shirt. It's clever."

Alice tilts her head to read it. "If you say so."

"Well, if we've finished staring at the poor guy's chest …"

Eric's impatience reminds me of my manners and I introduce Alice and Eric to Jared.

"Oh! Alice. You shaved your hair again?"

She shrugs. "Yeah, it was growing out all spiky—I looked like I'd stuck my finger in a power-point. Plus, it's getting warm again, so I just got rid of it all."

"It's kinda hot." Eric winks at her. "Not many chicks could pull it off, but you rock it."

Alice giggles. "Thanks, man."

We wander into the bar, Jared offering to grab the first round. He waves off offers of help. "You guys grab a table—I'll find you."

He does, three beers and Alice's mojito balanced in his hands, a smile on his lips.

Sam's—or Brews on Bayside—is trendy without being pretentious, cool without attracting crowds of wanna-be hipsters. Inside, it's is all exposed brick and recycled furniture. None of the tables or chairs match, and neither do the glassware, crockery and cutlery, which were all gathered from thrift stores.

We're sitting at this really great table tucked into a corner, which has been resurfaced with deep blue bathroom tiles. It's small enough to keep things intimate, yet big enough to fit the plates laden with burgers and fries when our dinner arrives.

Conversation flows easy, its thread weaving in and out. It swells to include all, then splits off as interest is captured or lost.

Jared has moved back to town armed with a teaching degree and a job in the local elementary school, which snares Alice's attention. She's been reading up on educational psychology, so their conversation runs away with Vygotsky and Piaget and behaviorists and constructivists and who knows what else.

Eric is a personal trainer—which explains the carefully maintained physique, the low-carb beers and the salad he requested in place of fries. He's completely bemused by the idea that I spend all day writing.

"Like, you just sit there and type all day?"

My nose scrunches as I try to explain. "I guess. I mean, yeah, I spend a lot of time in front of a computer. And I spend a lot of time researching, depending on what I'm writing about."

He shakes his head in mock dismay. "Such a shame, a beautiful girl like you locked in front of a computer all day. So, what are you writing at the moment?"

His compliment pulls half a smile across my lips. "I've just written a novel about a girl who wants to be a mermaid."

He nods. "Oh, so, you write kids' books."

"No. This one's young adult, as were my last three novels."

He takes a pull of his beer. "Right. So they must be kind of … well, like a lot easier to write than adult novels."

I can feel defensiveness crawling up my spine like a spider. "Not necessarily."

He chuckles, and I'm not unaware of the way his eyes dip down my chest and back to my face. My eyebrows lift, but he just smirks.

"But writing for teenagers … Like, you're not going to be writing about very deep stuff, are you?"

The creeping spider bites at my neck, and my eyes narrow. "That's a reasonably common misconception. And I suppose—unfortunately, there _are_ a lot of books written for teenagers that dumb things down. I prefer to give young people more credit than that. It's absurd to think that youth precludes empathy, or that young people just want to read about booze and sex and like, oh-my-gosh-he's-so-hot vampires. I mean, you look at the books people like John Green and David Levithan and Stephen Chbosky are writing—even freaking _Harry Potter_. These books are dealing with big ideas. Life and existence, sacrifice, love and death, purpose, meaning. Young people understand these things—they want stories that speak to them, that stretch them. They want literature they can relate to—stuff that explores the big questions they're trying to find answers to. Which, importantly, is not to say that they want you to _give_ them those answers. You don't need to tell them what to think or feel. You want to give them the freedom to explore these ideas."

Eric keeps nodding as I speak, his eyes flicking between my boobs and my mouth. I'm on a roll, though.

"I read somewhere … something about books being a safe place to explore fragile ideas without breaking them, and dangerous ideas without them detonating in your face. If you think about it that way, literature can be hugely formative in young people's lives. You're giving them a safe space to think anything—to explore and question everything. And that's really fucking important."

Eric blinks as I drink deeply from my beer. "Whoa."

I shrug. "It's something I care about."

"You're really sexy when you're fired up."

I don't know whether to roll my eyes or smile, so I settle for bringing my beer back to my lips. "Thanks."

He lowers his mouth to beside my ear, just as Alice turns her attention back to us.

"What are you lecturing the poor man about, Bea?"

I poke my tongue out at her. "Books."

She waves me off. "Why did I even ask? Anyway, I need to head off. Are you kids going to stay out?"

Eric lifts an eyebrow. "I don't have anywhere to be. I could hang for a while longer."

Jared nods. "Me either."

Eric's eyes flick towards Jared and his shoulders square a little—if he were a peacock, he'd be spreading his tail wide. I bite my lip to stop the giggle that's tickling my throat leaving my mouth.

I check the time. It's nearing eleven. "I'm going to head home."

Alice and I say our goodbyes, scrambling out of the booth as Jared turns to Eric to ask where the best spear fishing spots are in the area.

I've only been home for ten minutes when the first text arrives.

**From Eric Yorkie:  
****I had fun tonight. You can school me on books anytime.**

I laugh and throw my phone on the dresser. He's a charmer, that one.

Totally not my type, but he's attractive in an overt way, funny, and has that confidence that flirts dangerously with arrogance that so many women seem to love.

I slip my dress down, leaving it in its pool on my bedroom floor, and set the ceiling fan spinning. I climb into bed in only my panties, shivering a little as the sheet slides across my breasts.

* * *

He's here. Again.

In my bed.

His fingers brush across my breasts, and he smiles as my nipples tighten.

His voice is a deep murmur. "So gorgeous. Your body, the way it responds to me."

His mouth follows the path his fingers swept, and my back arches, wanting more, wanting him closer.

His face swims in my vision, blurring in and out of focus, but his green eyes anchor me, holding me steady as the storm rages through my veins.

And then he's gone and I'm shaking.

My bed is empty. Sunshine pierces through the not-quite-drawn curtains, burning away the nighttime shadows of my dream. My chest is rapidly rising and falling, and my pulse is thundering through me like a steam train.

It's not even seven o'clock., but the screen of my cell phone is glowing. Unbelievable. I reach for it, cursing whichever moron is responsible for yanking me out of my dream.

**From Eric Yorkie:  
****Just been for my early morning run. You were on my mind.**

Ugh. I suppose that's flattering, but in my grumpy-sleepy state, it's just coming across as showing off. _Ooh, look at me with all my muscles and my fitness—I go running before the sun climbs into the sky._

I chuck my phone back on the nightstand and roll over, desperate to fall back into my dream, into _his_ arms.

I can't though. Like a thrown switch, my mind is alight—I'm _on_.

I still have a stack of revisions to work through, so I climb out of bed, shower and breakfast, and take my laptop out onto the verandah. In the early morning, it's cool enough in the shade for me to work outside. Around lunchtime, even in Spring, the heat and the sun sliding under the sails that shade the balcony will force me inside.

Until then, I busy myself with going over more of Jacob's notes, altering some things, reworking a few passages that don't carry the meaning as well as I'd hoped. I make a few notes of my own, and in response to one of his suggestions, I simply write "I don't fucking think so."

Some of his notes are harder to work through.

_At the close, Tallulah's mother still hasn't reconciled herself to her daughter becoming a mermaid. Do you think it might be both more powerful, and more satisfying, if she came to accept that her daughter has to live her own life?_

Working through a suggestion like this is a lot more difficult than fiddling with a few words. It's a huge shift in the themes and tone of the book.

Eventually, I jot down a note.

_I think I'm going to leave this at it is. I know it's not neat, but it's real. Sometimes you make a decision and the people you love don't agree with it. It doesn't make your decision wrong._

Standing my ground over a character decision like this is a luxury I didn't have with my first two novels. Now, though, Jake and I have established a good relationship, and he trusts me enough that he'll allow me to veto certain suggestions.

When I head inside, I find I've received another text from Eric, one from Jared, and one from Alice. The texts from the boys are essentially the same: "Last night was fun, let's catch up again." Alice also includes a query about which one of the boys caught my interest. I roll my eyes and chuck my phone on the couch, leaving all three texts unanswered.

I eat a quick lunch, and continue plowing through revisions until my eyes are crossing and my head is aching.

I'm just stretching out the stiffness in my neck when my phone starts to ring.

_Eric. _

I sigh. I don't really want to talk to him. I contemplate ignoring his call, but it's just delaying the inevitable. He's made it clear he's interested, and I owe it to him to tell him that I'm not.

I slide my finger across the screen and tuck the phone into the crook of my neck. "Hello?"

"Hey, Bella-Bea. How are you? Busy day, huh? You haven't answered any of my texts."

I ignore his jibe. "I'm okay, Eric. And you?"

"Yeah, pretty good. I'd be even better if this really gorgeous girl I'm interested in would let me take her out to dinner tomorrow night."

"Uh …"

"Aww, come on, babe. You know we'll have fun together."

"Eric –"

"Tomorrow doesn't work? That's okay. What about Saturday? I know this really great place just out of town—the views are just amazing. They're like, panoramic, one-eighty degree ocean views. And they do this fantastic little lunch dégustation. We could relax, have a few glasses of wine, and get to know each other a little better."

My fingers span my forehead, thumb and middle finger pushing into my temples. My eyes drift across the _panoramic, one-eighty degree ocean views _my living room offers. "I don't –"

"It'll be fun. And after lunch we can go for a walk—even take a swim if the water's not too cold for you. I'd love to see you in a bikini."

_Is he fucking serious?_ "Yeah, I don't think so."

"Really? Huh. I totally picked you for a bikini babe. That's okay, I'm sure you'll still look hot in a one piece."

I untuck my phone from my shoulder, holding it to my ear, and drag my other hand through my hair, wincing as my fingers catch in the tangles. "Right. Look, Eric. You're a great guy –"

"Yeah, I really am. So, how about it? I'll pick you up at about twelve-thirty? Wear something pretty, okay?"

Pushed by his absolute refusal to listen, I snap. "I'm not interested, Eric. In you. Not like that. Okay?"

He laughs. "Sure, sure."

"I'm serious. I mean, it was fun hanging out. But I'm just … I'm just not interested in anything more than friendship –"

"For now."

I close my eyes and shake my head. "Excuse me?"

"It's cool, babe. Jared said your mom mentioned you just got out of a thing with an older dude. So, you know … I'm happy to wait for you to straighten your head out."

"That's … _very nice_ of you."

He either doesn't hear, or chooses to ignore the biting sarcasm edging my voice. "Well, I am a nice guy. Anyway, Bella-Bea. One night with me, and I promise you—you won't even be able to remember that guy's name."

How did I not realize this guy is a complete douche? He seemed really quite pleasant when we were out the other night.

I speak slowly and clearly. "Eric. I am not interested. I'm not looking for a relationship. And to be brutally honest, over the last five minutes you've convinced me that even if I were looking to date—I really don't think you and I would be compatible."

He's quiet for a moment, and I wonder if I've been too harsh.

"Okay. Sure. It's your loss, babe."

I definitely wasn't too harsh. "Okay. Bye, Eric."

"Whatever."

I've only just set my phone on the kitchen bench and opened the refrigerator when it starts vibrating again.

_Fuck._

It's Jared.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Bella. Uh, it's Jared."

"Hi. Um, how are you?"

"I'm good. Uh, listen … I was just … I mean, I really enjoyed hanging out the other night, and I was wondering if you'd, maybe want to do it again. But, you know … just you and me. Like, a date?"

I resist the urge to throw my cell phone across the room, and bite down on the abrasive words forming on my tongue. It's not Jared's fault that Eric is a dickhead, nor is it his fault that he's just not whom I want.

"Jared. Listen. You're a lovely guy. And maybe, if I were in a different place, then yeah, I'd love to go on a date with you. But, I'm not. I'm just … I'm not ready, okay?"

"No, no. That's totally fine. I, uh, I understand." His speech is mumbly-embarrassed, and I feel pretty shitty.

"I'm sorry."

"Nah. Don't be. It's okay, really. Um, I guess I'll see you around."

"Yeah."

"Bye, Bella."

The line goes dead before I can repeat his farewell.

I switch my phone off and set it on the counter. With a sigh, I lay my forehead against the cool stone.

Jared's a nice guy. He's friendly and laidback, he's funny and he's kind. Dating him would be easy. After my too-serious, too-intense, too-many-expectations relationship with Jasper—Jared is exactly the kind of guy I would—_should_—want to date.

_But he's not Edward._

Even as the thought crystallizes in my mind, I hate myself for it.

He's not fucking real.

He is a figment of my imagination—a character that I've allowed to manifest into … well, into some sort of delusion.

Inexplicably, he's somehow stepped out of the words that shaped him, out of the pages of his story, and become real to me, and dear to me. And now I'm turning down dates with really lovely, genuine, _corporeal_ men—because they can't compare to the man I've created in my mind.

So what do I do? What the hell _can_ I do?

Twisting the ends of my hair, I move out onto the verandah. The late afternoon air is still warm, heavy with the scent of star jasmine and sea-spray. A slight breeze flutters around me, and I close my eyes as I lean against the railing.

If I thought the fresh air would bring clarity, a new understanding, I'm disappointed. The stark, absurd facts remain. Bold type, underlined in my mind: **I'm falling in love with this man.**

Refusing to write his story hasn't lessened the amount of time I've spent thinking of him, comparing him to other men. It hasn't stopped the dreams, and the snatches of conversation that tease and torment.

The sand and sea are aflame with sunset reds and golds as I make my way carefully down the steps and onto the beach. I walk towards the surf, stopping only when I'm knee-deep in the cold, salty water. The hem of my dress trails through the whitewash as I wade deeper.

It's not necessarily unusual for a story to grab me by the heart and the throat like this. Being held hostage until a story has unfolded under my fingers isn't new.

Ordinarily, I'd run with it. I'd write—obsessively—until the story released its death grip.

I should do that with Edward's story. Write it until it untangles from me.

But I just … I can't bring myself to give him to anyone else. I couldn't bear to have him kiss Rosalie—how could I watch him fall in love with another woman?

The seed of an idea begins to germinate in my consciousness. I try to tear it out, rip it up before its roots can take hold.

The idea is simultaneously thrilling, and terrifying.

And fucking absurd.

I can't do it. I cannot in good conscience do it. I can't.

My thoughts are staticky, like an untuned radio. Trying to clear my head, I dive beneath the water, hoping the still-chilly water will shock my mind into silence.

When I resurface, my dress is heavy and sticky on my skin. The idea is budding, its roots anchoring, its shoots uncurling.

I can't … can I?

I squeeze the water from my hair, wading clumsily back to the shore. By the time my feet are planted in dry sand, my decision is made.

_Like I ever had a choice._

So fuck it all.

Self-insertion has a long history in literature. Ayn Rand and Kurt Vonnegut, Charles Bukowski and Isaac Asimov, Stephen King and John Steinbeck. If it's good enough for some of the greatest writers of this age, then I can damn well write myself into a story, too—especially if it's one I have no intention of ever sharing with another soul.

And if this is the only way this constant torment will cease … then I will write this, and I will write it through to the end—whatever that may be.

I'm all too aware that this could be a huge waste of my time and energy. Could be … _will be_.

Maybe I'll lose interest as the words flow, maybe he'll fade away and I'll lose this haunting inspiration. That could be the best outcome, after all. Ridding myself of this spectre that shadows me.

Perhaps I'll make him _too_ real and I'll give myself over to him in all his fictitious glory, fall in love with him wholly and completely—only to be forced to smash my own heart into a million shards when I can't keep him.

It may prove utter drivel that I despise as soon as it shapes itself into words. Again, this isn't really a problem. I can delete it and take up a new thread, unravel a new story.

But it could well be the greatest thing I'll ever write—and it will never, ever be read by anyone other than me.

There's only one way I'll know.

* * *

I stumble-run back home, goose bumps prickling across my skin. I trail water and sand across the balcony and through the house—barely even aware of it.

I shower, impatient, my fingers itching, the words like worms under my skin, trying to find their way out and into writing. My decision has energized me, and I'm already plotting as I wash salt from my hair and sand from my skin.

I can't simply do a find and replace. Rosalie's story isn't mine.

I wouldn't be in a bar by myself. It's not me.

I don't bother to dress. Staying wrapped in my towel, I crawl into bed, my laptop warm on my naked thighs.

How would Edward and I meet? How would our paths cross?

* * *

_She'd noticed him when he walked into the coffee shop, laughing with two other men. It was the sound of his laughter—genuine and warm—that had caught her attention. As her eyes found him—head thrown back, his arm slung across his friend's shoulder—she couldn't help her smile. _

_Blue scrubs. A stethoscope dangled from the pocket at his hip. He wore the uniform of someone who cared—matched by the two men who had come in with him. _

_She watched him as he waved his friends off, told them to find a seat while he ordered. Despite the dark circles beneath them, his eyes were bright, the skin around them creased with merriment, and a smile still played on his lips. _He's gorgeous,_ she thought. _

_She listened as he ordered—even from where she sat, she could heard the polite tone in his voice. Despite the early hour, and his obvious fatigue, he ordered decaffeinated coffees. _That's strange_, she thought, _he looks like he could use the stimulant_. She glanced across at his friends—the dark-haired man had his head on the table, and the taller, blond one was slumped in his chair, head tipped to the ceiling, eyes closed. _

_Her eyes wandered back to_ him_. She watched him as he thanked the barista, collected the three cups of coffee, and made his way towards his companions._

_As he passed the table where Isabella sat, she kept her eyes fixed on his long legs. She saw his feet stumble a little, heard his low curse, but she didn't look up. She'd been in his shoes too often, and didn't want to embarrass him by staring._

_His feet disappeared from her field of vision, and she tried to turn her attention back to the words she had been scrawling in her journal. The pages before her were covered in looping black ink, and had had her full attention until that burst of laughter had rung through the café. _

_Isabella sighed and flipped the book shut. She tucked it back into her bag and wrapped her hands around the cup of chai she had been neglecting._

_She finished the last of her drink, her mind about twelve feet behind her. When she heard the men exchanging farewells, she sighed—dismayed that he would be walking out of her life so soon. She watched the two other men make their way out of the café, smiling when she saw them clasp hands as they jogged down the steps._

"_Hi." His voice vibrated through her like a small earthquake and shook awake something she didn't know was dormant. "Would you have a pen I could use?"_

_Isabella smiled. Her heart picked up its pace and her stomach took off on a tumbling line—round-off, backflip, backflip, whip, double back somersault ... "Of course."_

_She rummaged through her bag, growing perplexed when her fingers came up empty. Tissues, lip balm, tampons, diary, journal … she was just writing in it. With a pen. Where had they all gone?_

_She looked up at him, her cheeks pink with her stupidity. "I'm so sorry. I can't –"_

_He leaned forward, amusement and patience dancing in his green eyes. His hand reached behind her head, and he pulled one, two, three pens from her hair, causing it to tumble loose around her shoulders._

"_Oh." She felt the heat creep down her neck, and her hand fluttered to touch the back of her head where his hand had hovered just moments before._

_He winked. "May I?" He indicated the pens he'd just placed on the table in front of her._

_She nodded, her tongue twisted and uncooperative._

"_Awesome." He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and handed Isabella her own pen. "Do you think—I'd love to take you out for coffee. Could I get your number?"_

_She worked to untangle her tongue—jotted down her name and phone number as she tried to remember how to form words._

_She picked up the paper, then hesitated. _

_Meeting his friendly gaze, she took a steadying breath and indicated the empty chair beside her. "You, uh, you could join me, now … if you wanted?"_

"_I'd love to—" he peeked at the paper fluttering in her fingers "—Isabella. Really. But I must admit, I'm probably not great company right now. It's been a very long night."_

"_You're a doctor?"_

_He shook his head. "Nurse." _

"_Over at Grace?"_

"_Yeah. On the paediatric ward. We've just come off the nightshift."_

_She nodded, looking up at him thoughtfully. His easy-kindness emboldened her to playfulness and she felt her cheeks rise with her smile._

"_Okay. I'll give you this—" she waved the paper bearing her name and number "—on one condition."_

_His eyebrows climbed his forehead. "Which is?"_

"_Tell me your name?"_

_His laugh bounced right into Isabella's chest and set her insides off on another acrobatic endeavor. "I'm so sorry. I'm Edward."_

_She accepted the hand he offered her, thrilled by the warmth and strength of his long fingers as they closed around her own._

"_It's lovely to meet you, Edward."_

"_Likewise, Isabella."_

* * *

**A/N: Umm, yeah ... You still with me?**

**I love you guys. I'm really sorry if I didn't reply to your review yet-I will do so, asap.**

**Shell xx**

* * *

**Miss Winkles is my twin in all things PB and delusory.**

**The DTCPS are both wonderful, inspiring writers, and absolutely beautiful ladies, and I loves them all.**

**Tam is my favourite colour. I love her like my first cup of tea in the morning.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7.**

* * *

"_When writing a novel a writer should create living people; people not characters." Ernest Hemingway_

* * *

Sunlight burns its way into my bedroom, easing me from sleep. I stretch, my body humming with anticipation.

Edward. _My_ Edward.

I stay in bed, conjuring various scenes. Just flashes and impressions. Our first date, our first kiss, our first fight, our first time.

My fingers flirt with the lace edge of my panties until I force them away, stretching my arms above my head and gripping the headboard. Despite the tension I can feel collecting in my belly, I tell myself to wait, to let this story unfold in time, page by page.

I catch a yawn on the back of my hand as I pull myself up. I feel lighter on my feet this morning. I'm quite aware of the fact that it's utterly ridiculous, but I feel like I really am waking up the day after meeting a gorgeous man whose laughter sent a kaleidoscope of butterflies hurtling through my insides.

It's comparable to the feeling I had—minus the hangover—waking up beside Jasper all those years ago. Or maybe it's more like opening my college acceptance letter, or getting two hundred dollars from my grandma on my thirteenth birthday. Possibilities spiral endlessly through my mind. I don't know. This, though, it eclipses those fluttery feelings. It's like candles glowing under floodlights. They shine the same thing, they both emit photons—but this feeling, whatever it is, is exponentially _more_.

Under the excitement bubbling through me, like champagne has replaced my blood—I can even feel the tug of nerves in my belly. Like I'm wondering if he's woken up with me on his mind, too, if he's as lit up as I feel, as if I'm wondering whether he'll actually call.

I need to write. I need to write his morning after. Or evening—he's just finished a night shift, I remind myself—he'll be waking in the late afternoon.

I force myself through the meaningless tasks of a new day: showering, dressing, brushing my hair, trying to ignore the way my fingers twitch—ache—to continue our story.

I leave my empty cereal bowl in the sink, the pinpricks at my temples reminding me that I'm going to need to caffeinate before I begin. I let my espresso routine catch me up, forcing myself to be meticulous about preparing the black gold that oozes into my cup.

Orange peel and caramel tones slip over my tongue and burst into my veins, energizing, enlivening.

Still, I make myself pause once again.

Leaning against the counter, I grab my journal and a pen. There's a question that's been playing around the edge of my consciousness that I need an answer to first.

_Who is Isabella?_

Do I write her as I am? Or the person I want to be? The woman I wish I could be?

I could make myself—no, _Isabella_—anyone. Everything I aspire to be.

Or I can take a hard look at myself and write the truth. I can be myself completely, and he will still love me.

I feel strangely light as I realize this. I can write myself, truly: faults, weaknesses, bad habits and imperfections. I can show myself in writing with more honesty than I can in life.

In life—we edit, we hide, we conform. We become what the people around us want us to be, or think we should be. We present different sides of ourselves to different people, morphing like chameleons, depending on the expectations placed upon us, the circumstances we are placed in.

But I don't need to hide from Edward. I can show him every flaw, every failing, and he will love me. Unconditionally.

This isn't love. It's coercion.

He isn't real, and he has no say. I'm writing him. It's not him loving me, it's …

No. I'm looking at this the wrong way.

It's Edward loving Isabella.

Regardless of how true to myself I am as I characterize her—she is still Isabella. She may look like me, act like me, think like me, but I am not her, not really. She can't be me; I can't be her. She exists only inside the pages of this story; I exist only outside of it. She's like … parallel universe Me.

I wonder again if I'm flirting with madness, whether I'm on the verge of losing touch with reality. Why am I even thinking about doing this?

_Because I have no alternative now—I'm in too deep_.

My decision affirmed, I finally give myself permission to grab my laptop. I settle myself on the verandah, sea air in my nostrils and anticipation thrumming under my skin.

I pull up the documents, my palms damp, my breath coming in short and sharp gusts.

Once it's on the screen, I pile my hair on top of my head and hold it there. My eyes swish across the words gathered on my screen like windshield wipers.

And as I absorb the scene unfurling, Edward and Isabella's introduction—_our_ first meeting—my lips curve into a tiny smile. Hope builds until it cannot be contained and it erupts through me—the tiny molecules colliding and bursting hot hot hot as galaxies explode and universes are spun into existence.

_Possibilities._

* * *

_There is something incredibly intoxicating in a person showing interest in you, in knowing that there is something in you that has garnered the attentions of another. This person—whether they're a potential friend or a love interest—has seen something that has made them want to know _you_. Ordinary, everyday, _you_._

_Watching Edward's lean figure disappear, Isabella sighed, her breath seeping slowly between her lips. Her elbows landed clumsily on the table's edge as she cupped her chin in her hands. She watched him until she could no longer see his long legs in their sky blue against the sidewalk grey. As she glanced back down at the three pens scattered across the table top, her lips stretched into the kind of goofy grin that made the barista roll her eyes when she caught sight of it. The secret smile, the unfocused eyes—the signs of a woman who had just been swept off her feet in a chance encounter. _

_And yet, there was a small part of her that felt strangely emptied in his absence, despite the absolute brevity of their meeting. It felt almost as though he had carried away more than just her phone number in his pocket. _

_Perhaps he had. For had she not, in her name and those seven digits, embedded hope and anticipation? She had no way of finding him again—it was entirely up to him to seek her out, and there was something both thrilling, and completely terrifying, about such a prospect._

* * *

_Making his way towards the lot where his car had waited overnight, Edward was curiously aware of his pockets. Useful things they were, usually filled with surgical tape, scissors, hemostats, thermometer, pen light, tegaderm, alcohol wipes and a number of other necessities. Right now, though, his pockets were empty but for the scrap of paper bearing Isabella's number, which he could almost feel burning his left thigh … and two ballpoint pens that scratched against his right hip as he walked._

I'll have to remember to confess that to her one day,_ he thought. He was completely unrepentant—if pretending not to have a pen secured him her company on another occasion, his lie of omission would definitely have been worth it._

_Edward's mouth curved into a languorous smile as he hoisted himself into the driver's seat of his SUV. Despite the bone-weariness of a long night, he felt charged, electric. He forced himself to put Isabella from his mind as he drove home, all too aware of the dangers of inattention while behind the wheel fatigued._

_However, as soon as he stepped into the shower, snatches and flashes of their meeting assaulted him—images projected against the steam-screen that rose around him. The curve of her neck, the bend of her wrist as he watched her tuck the third pen into the knot of hair at the back of her head. The pink blooming across her cheekbones, the tumble and bounce of her shiny brown curls, as he eased the pens back out fifteen minutes later. Her voice, sweet and soft, and so very pretty._

_A towel around his waist, he scooped his scrubs off the floor, rescued the prized scrap of paper from his pocket, and threw them towards the hamper._

_As he crawled into bed, his hair still wet, the blackout curtains drawn against the late morning sun, he wondered how soon he could call her without coming across as over-eager. _

Oh, screw it,_ he thought, as he slipped towards sleep. _I _am_ over-eager. Why pretend I'm not? I'll call her tonight.

* * *

_As it transpired, Edward didn't call Isabella that night. _

_The busy night had taken its toll, and when he awoke eleven hours later, he determined it unacceptably late to call her. He debated sending her a text, but decided against that, too—for all he knew she may have already gone to bed and he didn't want to disturb her or have her think him inconsiderate. _

I'll text her when I get off in the morning_, he thought._

_It was a particularly busy night on the ward—fortunately, this made the hours speed along quickly. Unfortunately, however, they were caring for a number of young ones with gastro-intestinal viruses, and Edward found himself dealing with excessive amounts of vomit._

_Garrett laughed as Edward eased past him, clearly needing to change his scrubs for the third time in the space of five hours. "Who got you this time?"_

_Edward looked at the nasty yellow liquid dripping down his chest. "Little Freddie. Again."_

"_The kid got you twice? Dude, what the heck?"_

_Edward shook his head in disgust. His reflexes were usually much better than this—he knew the signs, and yet here he was, soaked and reeking of bile. "I don't know, man."_

"_Your mind run off with the brunette in the café this morning?"_

_Edward flipped him off and continued past him, desperate to clean up before the fetid stench had his stomach doing more than just churning, too._

_Garrett, however, was nothing if not persistent. _

_A few hours later, as they grabbed a few minutes break, with most of the children finally settled, he tried again. "So … the girl you couldn't keep your eyes off this morning –"_

"_Isabella," Edward replied automatically, realizing his slip just a moment too late._

"_Ooooh!" The curl of Garrett's lips was positively wicked. "You dog—you talked to her?!"_

_Edward's fingers covered his mouth as he pretended to itch the stubble shading his top lip. "Yeah."_

"_And?" Garrett gestured for him to continue, his hand then sweeping his dark blond hair out of his eyes._

"_And what? Her name is Isabella. She's pretty, soft-spoken, keeps pens in her hair, drinks chai, and has a phone number. That's pretty much all I know."_

"_Dude!" Garrett held out his fist and Edward rolled his eyes, but bumped it anyway. "You got her number?"_

_Edward nodded, his small smile somehow proud and embarrassed at the same time. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth to stifle it._

_Garrett watched him closely for a minute and nodded. "Are you going to call her?"_

"_Yeah."_

"_When?"_

_Edward shrugged. "When I get off this morning."_

_He shook his head at Garrett's chuckle. "Get your mind out of the gutter, man."_

"_Ah, I'm just messing with you." Garrett hesitated for a moment, but pushed on. "I'm happy for you."_

"_Thanks, Gar. I mean, it's too soon –"_

_Garrett shrugged. "Of course it is. But I've known you for what? Three years now? And I've never seen you make the first move with a chick."_

_Edward yawned, covering his mouth with the crook of his elbow and conveniently hiding the heat spreading across his cheeks. "Yeah, well—" he yawned again, "—we'll see what happens."_

_Garrett stifled his own yawn and punched Edward's shoulder. "Fucking stop yawning."_

"_Can't," Edward mumbled, as another yawn stretched his mouth wide and caused his eyes to water. "Stop _talking_ about yawning, jackass."_

_Garrett's retort was cut off as a shrill alarm had both men on their feet, instantly alert and focused, listening to see what was required of them._

* * *

_Upon leaving the café, Isabella had drifted home, barely aware of where her feet were taking her, her mind still full of Edward. She replayed their meeting over and again in her mind, particularly enjoying recalling the way his voice had curled around her name, the heat of his arm, and the faded scent of his aftershave as he had reached toward her to pull the pens from her hair. _

_She unlocked her front door, kicked it closed, and only then did she allow the giddiness and excitement she'd been carrying to manifest physically, as she squealed and twirled around her kitchen—stopping only when her hipbones collided with the corner of her kitchen bench. _

_Her face scrunched in pain, Isabella rubbed her hip, certain she would now have a rather large black and blue mark staining her skin. That was certainly one reminder of the events of the morning that she could happily have done without. _

_Isabella pulled her phone from the depths of her bag and double-checked the ringer was at full volume. She reminded herself that Edward was most likely asleep already, having worked through the night, though this didn't stop her from bringing the little device with her into the study—rather than leaving it on the kitchen counter, as she would usually have done._

* * *

Hmm. Another question tugs at the corners of my consciousness, pulling me from the story, as my fingers falter on the keys.

Would she call a friend—share her excitement? Gossip and giggle, recall every detail of this morning's meeting?

My head tips from side to side as I stretch my neck out.

It's one thing to write myself into a story … it's a completely different thing to write my friends and family in, too. I feel far more uneasy about that than I do about baring myself to the pen.

But Isabella needs context. She can't exist on her own. No one does. She hasn't spent her life living in a vacuum. She needs to have friends and family and events that have shaped her—she needs to have a history.

What if … what if she's new in town?

Moving to this small, coastal Californian town to escape life in an even smaller coastal Californian town. To get away from living in the pockets of people she's known since birth, to get away from blind dates and a meddling mother. Leaving behind the sheer ennui of a town full of people who see her—and treat her—the same way they did when she was six years old and running through the sprinkler on the lawn in her Minnie Mouse underpants.

* * *

_She could use the distraction, Isabella decided, looking at the empty bookshelves that lined the walls of her study. Unpacking would be an excellent way for her to avoid the ignominy of sitting by the phone, pining for Edward's call. _

_Fortunately, the boxes were all labeled comprehensively, so shelving them was merely a matter of lining them up in their correct timeframe, and then alphabetizing them within the literary period: _American Contemporary Literature, Literature of the Romantic Period, The Victorian Era, The Beat Generation, Renaissance Lit., The Existentialists, _and so on._

_The day was fading fast, the sky a deep, dark blue, by the time Isabella completed her task—after all, her books had taken up more than half the space in the truck her father had hired when they trundled down the coast to set her up in her new home._

_She moved out to the kitchen, pottering around as she threw together a simple linguine, poured a glass of wine, and then made her way out onto the wraparound verandah—the feature that had ultimately convinced her to purchase this particular house._

It even smells the same here,_ she thought, stepping out into the night. _Sea salt and frangipanis. It smells like almost-summer and contentment and good things around the corner.

_And as the night crept around her like a faded, beloved blanket, the last of the light slipping from the sky, it seemed to her that the stars were smiling in anticipation, winking as they looked down on her. _

* * *

_The chiming of her phone pulled Isabella from a flustered sleep._

_Fumbling for her phone, her lips curled from their sleepy pout, spreading into a wide smile._

_**From Unknown Number:  
**__**Hi, beautiful. You've been on my mind all night. Same place, same time? Edward.**_

_Looking at her watch, Isabella gasped and bounced out of bed, ducking into the shower with her smile still fixed to her lips. _

_She ran out the door ten minutes later, her hair dripping down her back, her face free of make up, the zipper of her dress not quite all the way up._

* * *

_Edward decided to order Isabella a chai when he arrived at the café. He knew he ran the risk of looking like an idiot—or having to drink it himself—but he was feeling hopeful._

_His optimism was rewarded when she burst up the three steps and into the café, her cheeks pink and her damp hair wild. She smiled when she saw him, and Edward felt his own lips respond in kind as she walked towards the table he'd chosen._

"_Hi." Her greeting was quiet, shy._

_Edward felt himself relaxing—her nerves chasing his own away. "How are you?"_

_He wasn't sure whether to shake her hand or kiss her cheek. It was perhaps a little forward, but he really wanted to feel her soft-looking skin against his lips. He stood, his hand finding her elbow, and pressed a feather-light kiss to her cheek, before he slipped the chair beside his out for her to sit._

_Isabella blinked, her already flushed cheeks darkening. Edward felt his chest puff up a little as her hand, seemingly unconsciously, touched the spot where he had placed his lips._

"_I-I'm well." She cleared her throat. "Thank you. How are you? You must be tired?"_

"_A little," Edward said. "But I don't work for four days, so I have plenty of time to rest."_

_He slid the chai in front of her, winking as she thanked him quietly._

"_Do you always work at night?"_

_He shook his head. "No. At Grace we rotate. I do nights for a month, then days for a month. Five days—or nights—on, and then two off. Though I've got a few extra days off now, from swapping shifts and covering for a friend."_

_Isabella nodded, her eyes thoughtful. "Do you ever adjust to it? Switching between kind of normal hours, and then being nocturnal for a whole month."_

"_Sort of. I have blackout curtains that help me sleep during the day, and I plan my sleep reasonably carefully on my days off."_

"_Do you stay nocturnal over those days off?"_

"_Not exactly. I mean, ideally, I would—but it's not feasible if I want to actually see people and have a social life." He chuckled. "What about you, Isabella? Do you work a job that requires bizarre hours?"_

_She smiled, tucking a drying curl behind her ear. "It doesn't require strange hours, but I often keep them, anyway. I, uh, I'm a writer."_

"_Really? That's fantastic—I've always wanted to know a real-life writer! What do you write—novels? Or are you like, a serious academic?"_

_Isabella laughed, surprised and delighted by his enthusiasm. "I've written a few novels, and had a few short stories published."_

"_Wow." _

_Edward seemed genuinely interested in her writing, and Isabella found it easy to talk to him about her current project, before their conversation meandered into a discussion of their favorite books, which led them into an argument about the merits of the most recent remake of _Wuthering Heights_, which then evolved into a discussion of their mutual love of several British television series. _

_When Edward stifled a yawn in the crook of his elbow, Isabella's brows rose. "Am I boring you?" _

_She gasped as he chuckled, surprised to find herself so comfortable teasing him when she'd only known him for a few hours._

"_Not all. But—" He checked his watch, "—it was a rather long night." _

"_Do you, uh, do you need to sleep?" _

_Edward shook his head. "No. Having the next four days off, I'll try not to go to sleep before about nine o'clock tonight."_

_Isabella nodded her understanding. "Did you always want to be a nurse?"_

"_Yeah, since I was about five. I had my tonsils out and there was this fantastic nurse who let me pester her the entire time I was there. What about you? Did you always want to be a writer?"_

"_I'm not sure," Isabella answered honestly, her fingers tapping the table top. "I've always written. So, maybe—I hoped, anyway. I would have kept writing, regardless, but my editor took a chance on my first novel and it did quite well. And through some other fortuitous circumstances, for now, I have the luxury of being able to write full-time, rather than juggle a day job and write in my spare time."_

"_That's wonderful."_

_Isabella watched him carefully, but he seemed sincere. _

"_It is," she agreed. "I'm very lucky."_

"_Your parents must be proud? Having a daughter whose books they can put on their shelf."_

_Isabella laughed. "Yeah. They've mostly been very supportive. My dad is a musician who works in construction to make ends meet, so he's always understood the impetus to write, you know? He writes music, writes songs—I write stories."_

"_And your Mom?"_

"_Mom is a little more pragmatic, I guess. She's an accountant. She likes numbers and order and sequences—checks and balances, things that add up. She didn't quite know what to do with me at times—particularly when I was a kid. Ultimately, though, she just wants me to be happy. Even if she sometimes disagrees with me about what should make me happy."_

_Edward chuckled, his hand moving against the stubble on his face. Isabella's eyes followed the movement, appreciating the straightness of his jaw, the severe angle where it hinged under his ear. _

"_Your mom sounds a little like my stepfather. He likes things to be ordered, matching. Whether it's his socks matching his tie, or making sure everyone he knows is happily paired up."_

_Isabella giggled then blushed, her hand moving to cover her mouth. "I'm sorry. Your—your stepdad likes to play matchmaker?"_

_Edward groaned dramatically. "It's his favorite hobby. He considers himself something of a student of psychology and sociology—or whatever. He likes to think he's good at seeing who people truly are, and then trying to set them up with someone he thinks they'll be compatible with."_

"_And, is he any good at it?" _

"_He'd claim to be. I think he's actually running at about a fifty percent success rate."_

"_And yet, you're single." Isabella's eyes widened as the words spilled from her. "I mean, oh shit—I'm sorry."_

_Edward waved her off. "I don't invite pretty girls for coffee when I'm in a relationship. Yes, I'm single. Not for lack of trying on Carlisle's part. He's always trying to send me on blind dates with his colleagues' daughters. It drives me crazy." _

_Isabella rolled her eyes, her composure recovered. "I can imagine. But—" She smiled mischievously, "—I've figured out the best strategy ever to deal with that. With matchmaking parents, I mean."_

_Edward grabbed her hands, an exaggerated plea on his face. "Tell me. Please, fair Isabella. Help me end this misery."_

_She laughed at his theatrics, secretly pleased he was so comfortable with her that he was happy to act goofy. _

"_Well, I had both my mother and my best friend trying to set me up. So, I invited _both_ guys _and_ my best friend out for a casual dinner. Mom couldn't complain, I met with her guy. Lauren couldn't complain, 'cause I met with _her_ guy, too. But I avoided the whole awkward ordeal of being on a date I didn't want to be on."_

"_That's genius." _

"_I thought so," Isabella captured the lengths of her hair, twisting it into a loose bun atop her head. She fumbled in a bag until her fingers closed around a pen._

"_I think I have a better idea, though."_

"_You do? For what?" She slotted the pen into her hair, securing the bun._

_Edward tugged at his ear. "For avoiding blind dates."_

"_Oh?"_

_He nodded, watching her expression closely. "Date someone you're actually captivated by."_

_Isabella's deep brown eyes widened, her lips parted slightly. "I think … that would work quite well."_

"_Right? Then you'd just say, so sorry Interfering Parent, I've met this beautiful girl and I'm really interested in seeing where things go with her."_

_Isabella giggled, collecting her wits. "I don't really date girls—I think my Mom would think I was lying to her."_

"_Oh, very funny." Edward snickered. "You don't miss a beat."_

You're wrong,_ thought Isabella. _My heart has missed several since I sat down beside you.

_She smiled. "It's a good plan, though. Really. I think it might just get your stepfather off your case."_

_Edward hoped he wasn't misreading her, wasn't seeing too much in the way she leaned towards him, her chin cupped in her hands. "Isabella? Would you, uh, would you like to go out, maybe tomorrow night?"_

_Her smile was answer enough, and he felt strangely light-headed as she nodded. "I'd love that."_

"_Can I pick you up at about seven o'clock?"_

_Isabella pulled the pen back out of her hair, tumbling it messy around her shoulders. It would have made Edward smile, had his lips not already been curved upwards almost non-stop since she had arrived. She grabbed a napkin from the pile Edward had brought to the table with their coffees, and quickly jotted her address down._

"_You have very nice handwriting," Edward said, watching the quick, confident strokes she made._

"_Thank you. Even though I mostly type—it's just so much quicker—I do still do a fair amount of pen and paper writing."_

_Edward tucked the napkin into the pocket of his scrubs, wondering how it was that in two days—in just over twenty-four hours—this girl had stirred up such a whirlwind of feelings inside him._

"_So, seven o'clock is okay?"_

"_Perfect."_

_Edward hesitated, feeling awkward for the first time since she arrived. "I, uh. Well, thank you for coming, this morning." _You're such a dork,_ he told himself._

_Isabella twisted a lock of hair between her fingers, also awkward, and unwilling for their time together to be over. "Thanks for texting me."_

_They stood, and Edward gestured for her to precede him out of the busy café. Both of them were surprised to realize the place was both packed and incredibly noisy—they had been so absorbed in each other that nothing else had managed to break through their little bubble of mutual fascination._

_As they descended the three stairs and stepped back against the café windows, out of the way of any pedestrians, they hesitated again. _

"_I'm just a few blocks that way," Isabella said, gesturing behind Edward. _

"_Okay, yeah. My car's still in the hospital lot. So, uh …"_

"_I'll see you tomorrow, yes?"_

_Edward nodded, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "Yeah. Seven, okay?"_

"_Perfect."_

_He hesitated, then, his hand lightly resting on her shoulder, leaned in and pressed his lips to her cheek for the second time. This time, though, he felt her lips against his jaw just as he started to pull away. _

_And this time it was Edward whose hand jumped to his cheek, still feeling the heat that lingered where her soft, warm lips had grazed his skin. _

"_I'll, uh, I'll see you tomorrow," Isabella murmured, quite liking his wide-eyed daze, the way his lips parted as he breathed deep._

"_Yes, tomorrow." He said, giving himself a mental shake._

_They danced the awkward am-I-going-right-or-left dance for a few steps, matching goofy smiles on their faces. Edward stopped, chuckling, and gestured for her to pass him on his left. _

"_Bye, Isabella."_

"_Bye." She turned and crossed the street, the breeze tangling its fingers in her now-dry hair and teasing the hem of her dress. _

_Edward spun on his heel, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he headed back to collect his vehicle. To passersby, he was simply a young medico going home from another shift, the bruise-colored smudges under his eyes testimony to a long night. On the inside, however, he was Gene Kelly—despite the sunny, rain-free skies—heel-clicking, barrel-leaping and lamppost-twirling his way back home._

* * *

The sun falls behind the sea, the creeping blackness catching me off guard. My fists find my strained eyes, rubbing them as though it could cause the atmosphere to re-brighten. It doesn't, and I trip over the cord snaking it's way across the decking to my laptop when I stumble back inside to switch on some lights.

I feel strangely disoriented, neither here nor there. I'm not quite present, like one foot is firmly planted against the floor as I step back out onto the verandah, while the other is still quick-stepping along a footpath in an imaginary seaside town.

Flutters and aches compete in my belly. Hunger wars against the residual flip-flopping of first-date excitement. I want to throw myself back into the words I've been creating, lose myself in the giddy rush of infatuation and attraction.

Instead, I save everything, shut the lid and wind up the cord. I bring my laptop inside, and set it on the couch.

Cooking for one is painful, but I make myself do it. After I've eaten, I fill three containers and place them in the freezer, chastising the part of my brain that tells me I now have absolutely no responsibilities for the next three days, the seductive voice whispering to me to write and write and write until the story is all that exists.

I ignore it.

For now.

* * *

He's above me, surrounding me, his warm weight containing me. Our lips a whisper apart, his hands by my head, elbows braced, hips pressed together.

He's laughing. The sound makes the air around me shimmer. It slides through me, stirring something deep inside.

I reach for him, my hands moving along his jaw, feeling each coarse hair bending under the pads of my fingers.

He looks down and his laughter stops short, intensity suddenly framing us. His eyes pierce right through me. Like he sees into the parts of me I'm hiding, sees me where it matters.

"Hey." I know his voice like my own name.

I can't speak, the words have become jumbled, they're knotted and tangled in my throat.

He smiles, my fingers move to his lips without my consent, pressing against their smoothness, examining the little creases that stripe them.

He kisses my fingertips, and I giggle.

He adjusts his weight, his hips rocking against mine. It pulls a gasping breath from my throat.

He rocks against me again. Another gasp. My back arches.

He rocks again, harder, his intentions clear.

"Wait."

He tilts his head at me, the lines on his brow deepen. "Why? I want you, pretty girl."

He rocks against me again. _See. See how I want you._

"Wait. We need … _Oh_ … We need to wait." My body makes me a liar, arching up against him.

His lips are by my ear, his breath warm against my neck. "Wait for what?"

"I'm waiting for you."

"I'm here."

"I'm waiting in words. I have to put it in words. In time. When it's right."

He's fading. Disappearing with my refusal, my rejection.

"You'll come back?"

He's gone, but his whisper carries like it's being lifted by the breeze. "When it's time."

I wake bereft, throbbing empty between my legs, my hands reaching blindly into the sunrise.

* * *

**A/N: Tam is all kinds of wonderful. Thank you, loveliest love, for everything.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8.**

* * *

_"Trust dreams. Trust your heart, and trust your story." Neil Gaiman_

* * *

The days grow long and languorous as summer approaches. The surf has flattened off, and even the wind seems lazy, its breath barely ruffling my hair in the late afternoons.

And yet, by contrast, this usually sleepy beachside town is bustling and vibrant as tourists start to roll through on their way down the coast. The beach at my backdoor is dotted with people. There are families with their colorful umbrellas studding the beach like pinwheels, shading their small children as they build their sandcastles. Sun-browned teens sprawl on their towels, soaking in the sunshine but rarely approaching the surf, and elderly couples take their strolls, hand-in-hand, into the sunset.

I avoid the vacationing crowds as best I can, feeling on edge as I'm jostled in the pedestrian-crowded streets, hemmed in by the people setting up their towels too close to the stairs that connect my house to the beach.

It's more than that, though, if I'm being honest. Immersed as I am in Isabella and Edward's story, I move through the days in a trance, loath to lose his presence, conjured so easily each time I sit down to write. He speaks so clearly, moves so vividly through my imagination that I feel I'm caught up in a waking dream. When reality pries me from its grip, it's an unpleasant shock, like a glass of ice-cold water spilling into my lap.

* * *

"_Favorite ice-cream flavor?"_

_Edward had suggested they take a walk between dinner and dessert, and the game they had been playing over their meal had continued out of the restaurant, and across the sands towards the long jetty reaching out into the sea._

"_Strawberry. Peanut butter and chocolate. Liquorice." Edward jogged up the stairs onto the jetty._

_Isabella laughed. "Easy. Peanut butter and chocolate."_

"_How did you guess that?" Edward turned to face her as she made her way up the stairs behind him._

"_Well—firstly, peanut butter and chocolate is obviously the greatest flavor combination ever invented. And secondly, you chose too-simple alternatives. You should have picked like, mint-choc chip, another combination, if you wanted to stump me."_

"_Clever. All right, favorite flower?"_

"_Star Jasmine. Bird of Paradise. Red roses."_

_Edward folded his arms across his chest, trying to picture each of the flowers. _

"_Jasmine."_

_Her face gave nothing away. "What makes you think that?"_

"_Well, the other two are certainly stunning to look at. But the scent of jasmine on a summer evening, _that_ is far more beautiful."_

_Isabella blinked. "Um, yeah … I mean yes, I agree. And you're exactly right. It's the fragrance that makes it my favorite."_

_Edward smiled, pleased that he'd guessed correctly, that he was making inroads in understanding the curious creature walking beside him in the evening light._

"_Okay. It's my turn," Isabella declared. "How old were you when you had your first kiss?"_

_Edward's lips twitched. "Eight. Eleven. Sixteen." _

_Isabella couldn't help herself. Speaking of kissing demanded she look at his mouth. She'd felt his lips against her cheek, but she was desperate to feel them, soft and plump, against her own. _

_She considered the answers he'd given her as they continued to make their way along the salt-smoothed wood._

"_There's no way you weren't kissed before sixteen, so that's out."_

_Edward winked at her. "Maybe I was a late bloomer."_

_She giggled. "Nope. I don't believe it. Your mouth is far too pretty to have gone that long unkissed. I'm going to guess … eleven."_

_Edward blinked at her, his mind still caught up on her comments about his mouth. "Huh?"_

"_Eleven."_

_He nodded. "Yep. I was in fifth grade. Her name was Makenna Franklin. It was my friend Connor Sutton's birthday party and we were playing spin the bottle." _

_Isabella smiled, trying to picture an eleven-year-old version of the man standing beside her. _

"_My turn," he said, nudging her with his shoulder. "Same question."_

"_Um. Ten. Twelve. Fourteen."_

_Reaching the end of the pier, Edward sat down, slipping his shoes and socks off, and rolling up the hems of his jeans. Swinging his legs over the edge, he wriggled his toes in relief as the cool water rushed around them. Isabella turned her face to hide her smile, stepped out of her shoes, hitched up her dress, sat beside him and followed suit. It was almost dark, but the air was still warm and heavy, and the water was pleasantly cool as she paddled her legs._

"_Twelve." _

_Isabella shook her head, the apples of her cheeks lifting with her smile. _

"_Ten?!"_

"_Fourteen," she said, her eyes on the ripples her feet were making. "I told you, I was a really shy kid. I spent most of my childhood hiding in books, in worlds that were so much more intriguing than my own."_

_Edward leaned back on his hands as his feet continued to swish through the water. "In that case … How old were you when you _imagined_ your first kiss?"_

_Isabella was a little taken aback by the question, by his insight into her._

* * *

I roll my eyes_. That's because_ you_ have insight into _you_._

I ignore myself and continue.

* * *

"_Twelve. I stole one of my mom's romance novels and read it by torchlight under the bedcovers. I didn't understand half of it, but I do remember wondering what it would be like. Er, kissing, I mean." _

_Edward sat up straight, raising his arms in triumph as Isabella shook her head. _

"_That doesn't count as a correct answer and you know it."_

"_And did your first kiss live up to the fantasy?"_

"_No!" Isabella snorted, then covered her face with her hands. "Of course it didn't," she told him, her voice muffled against her palms. _

_He reached for her wrist, tugging her hands away as she continued._

"_It was disgusting. My friend Angela dragged me to this party because she had her eye on this guy, Ben—he's actually her husband now. But, anyway, there was this other guy there. His name was Paul. He played some kind of sport, I don't know. Apparently, he was a big deal."_

_Edward chuckled as she shrugged, her hand still in his grasp. He imagined a younger Isabella, her beauty just starting to bloom, wounding some poor, besotted jock's pride by not knowing who he was and what position he played._

"_Anyway, he asked Angie if I'd hook up with him. And I thought, why not? I figured he'd at least know what he was doing. Being popular or whatever, I assumed he'd've kissed his fair share of girls."_

_Edward ignored the pinpricks making their way up his spine. "But …"_

"_Well, he may have had a lot of experience at licking girls' mouths, I don't know. But he certainly wasn't very nice to kiss."_

_Edward was torn between wanting to laugh at Isabella's obvious disgust, but also feeling strangely annoyed at the slobbering fool who hadn't known how to make her first kiss live up to whatever she'd imagined it to be. _

"_Tell me something?"_

_Isabella pursed her lips, the hand he still cradled moved to his knee, squeezing lightly. "Maybe."_

"_Tell me how you imagined it should have been?"_

"_Ahhh. Well, let's see … It would have to be by the water, the sound of the ocean is very important for atmosphere. And it would be at night, of course. Everything is much more romantic when the light is fading."_

_Isabella paused, her eyes on her hand where it rested on Edward's knee. She took a deep breath and pushed on, hoping she wasn't about to make a fool of herself._

"_He'd be gentle, sweet. He'd tuck my hair behind my ears, and hold my chin so carefully, like I was precious. And he'd kiss my cheek first, then just on the corner of my mouth –"_

"_Isabella." _

_Heat crept up her throat, her gaze dropping to her lap. _

"_I've got this."_

_She could barely feel his fingers as they swept the strands of her hair off her face, so violent was her pulse as it hammered through her veins. _

_His hands slid slowly up her arms, her shoulders, her neck, until he held her face between them, lifting her chin to make her look at him. Isabella was quite certain swooning was imminent as his lips pressed against her cheek, then trailed to the corner of her mouth, pressing another kiss there. _

_Edward pulled back, just for a moment, to search her eyes. All the encouragement he needed was there, shining in their depths. _

_And then his lips were on hers. Once, twice. One more. Soft, sweet kisses—gifts, not demands._

_When he started to pull back, he found himself anchored, small hands winding into his hair, unwilling to release him. Lips parted as their kiss moved deep, as tongues tangled and breath was exchanged._

_The absurd and completely inconvenient need for oxygen forced them apart, but only briefly, as they both seemed to conclude that kissing was actually much more necessary than breathing. _

_Mingled sounds of approval slipped from their throats, heady noises of pleasure set against the slow lapping of the waves against the pier. _

_With a contented sigh, Isabella pulled back, her eyes still closed. Edward's heart thumped double-time as he watched her lips curve up in delight. Leaning forward again, he pressed one more kiss to the highest point of her smile._

"_Wow," she sighed, as her eyes finally fluttered open._

_Edward felt his insides inflate to the point he suspected he might be in real danger of simply floating away into the starry sky. To anchor himself, he reached for Isabella's hand, twining his fingers between hers._

"_Favorite smell?" she asked, inhaling deeply. _

"_Oh, uh, let's see." Edward shook his head, trying to refocus his mind, as if it were possible when he was still caught up in the feel of Isabella's lips against his own. _

"_Freshly brewed coffee. Asphalt as the rain starts to fall. And—" He stroked the soft skin just beneath Isabella's ear "—right there."_

_She giggled. "Oh, too easy. The hours you keep—it's got to be coffee."_

"_Wrong." Edward murmured, pressing his lips to the place he'd just indicated. "It's a three way tie."_

_She shook her head, but was unable to wrestle the smile from her lips._

_Edward pulled away and cleared his throat. "My turn. Same question."_

_Isabella smiled, splashing her feet a little. She sighed, but when she looked up at him, her gaze was steady and open. "It just changed. I can't even remember any alternatives to make you guess. But it's this moment. This, right now, all of it together, is my favorite. Salt and sea and wood, warm summer air, sweet kisses and you."_

* * *

_Isabella followed Edward back down the pier steps, her shoes in one hand, the other absently tracing her kiss-swollen lips. She glanced down at him, appreciating the way the dark denim clung to his backside, until her attention was diverted to the skin revealed by his still-rolled-up jeans. _

"_You have a tattoo!" she exclaimed._

_Edward stopped short. "I do?"_

_Isabella rolled her eyes, playfully pushing him down the last few steps and onto the sand._

_He chuckled, pulling his jeans up over his knee and stepping backwards into the pool of light cast by the lamppost on the stairs, so she could see the ink that ran the length of his left calf. It looked to be a snake curled around a wooden stake._

"_It's beautiful," she said, squatting down in the sand to examine it closely. "Does it mean something?"_

"_It's the Rod of Asclepius," he told her. "You've probably seen it—more stylized, I guess—on ambulances and such."_

"_Oh, yes! So it's like a symbol of care … or healing?"_

"_Asclepius was associated with healing and medicine, yeah. He was supposed to have deferred death and healed soothingly."_

_Isabella smiled, her finger tracing the ink carefully. Her knees cracked as she stood up. "Nursing means a lot to you."_

"_Yeah, it does. It's … well, it's not _everything_, but I do love it. Even when it's tragic and I wonder how I'll be able to deal with losing another patient." He shrugged. "We get to make a difference. That's important to me."_

_He cleared his throat. "So—" He picked up Isabella's hand, linking their fingers back together, "—do you have any tattoos … or piercings?"_

"_Two. Four. Seven."_

_Edward chuckled at the return of their little game. He noticed the light glinting off the hoops in her ears. "Do earrings count as one or two?"_

"_Just one."_

"_Hmm. Two."_

_Her eyebrows lifted. "Are you going to guess what they are?"_

"_Well, your ears are pierced—that's one."_

"_Uh-huh."_

_He lifted his arm and made her twirl beneath it, the skirt of her dress lifting a little as she spun. "Well, whatever the other one is, it's not a tattoo on your calf. Or your arms."_

"_Correct."_

_Edward forced his mind away from the images of stripping her out of the dress to search out the mysterious mark. "I'm going to guess … you do have a tattoo, somewhere, and it's probably something literary."_

_Isabella grinned. "You're right."_

"_Aren't you going to tell me about it?"_

"_It says 'The dream was always running ahead of me.' Anaïs Nin, though the whole things is actually, 'The dream was always running ahead of me. To catch up, to live for a moment in unison, was the miracle."_

"_Beautiful," Edward murmured, his eyes roving across her frame, still trying to decide where she was hiding it. "So, where is it?"_

"_I guess you'll have to wait and see."_

* * *

After a few days of doing nothing but sitting in front of my laptop screen, my fingers racing across the keys as the words pour out of me, I know I need to spend time outside the house. I know I can't spend weeks on end avoiding life completely. It takes huge effort, though, to drag myself away from writing, from the little world I'm living in that exists only in words and my mind, and from Edward.

I tie the strings of my bikini behind my back, and grab a towel and my sunglasses. I almost pick up a tee-shirt, but I tell myself I won't stay out too long. The sun is at its highest, its fiercest, and I'm likely to burn quickly.

I chuck my towel on the sand, and make straight for the water. It's cool, brisk, and a familiar comfort. I linger in its chill, my mind emptying.

Back on the sand, I finally take in the day's beauty.

Sapphire skies, twice seen. On days like this, the sky begins before the ocean ends. The horizon ceases to exist.

My eyes close against the blue, seeking green. Seeking a different kind of warmth.

With the sun beating down on me, I can almost imagine the heat of his body beside mine. Feel the warmth of his arm sliding around my shoulder, the burn of his lips on my temple.

"You shouldn't be here." I'm smiling even as I say the words, my body inclining towards the radiant heat.

His chuckle echoes through my mind. "You brought me here."

"Yeah, I guess I did."

I imagine him pulling his arm away, leaning back on the sand, his elbows supporting his weight as his eyes drift across the shore. I can imagine his bare feet absently kicking at the sand, the wind making the ends of his hair waver. He's wearing board shorts, and I can just see the edges of his tattoo curling around his calf.

I lie back, bunching my towel under my head like a lumpy pillow, sand sticking to my still wet skin.

We don't speak. It's enough that he's here.

When I hear the squeak of footsteps in the sand, and a shadow passes across the sun, I expect it to be him. I can see him so clearly behind my eyelids, dripping with salt water, his hand in his hair, shaking the weight of the ocean from it. The creases around his eyes are deep from sun and smiling.

My lips curl as I open my eyes.

Muscles. Lots of muscles. Bumpy abdominals, and a smooth, tanned chest.

Like an elastic band pulled taut and released, my smile disappears. I have to force it back.

"Hey there, Bella-Bea."

I sit up, unfolding my towel and pulling it around my shoulders.

"Hi, Eric." I can hear the flatness in my voice, but I guess he doesn't.

Without waiting for my invitation, he drops into the sand, lying on his side, turned in towards me. His muscles ripple and flex. I look away, watching the ripples of blue-green waves instead.

"So, you _are_ a bikini girl."

Without turning towards him, I shrug. "Sometimes."

"Looks good on you."

I slide my sunglasses on like I'm raising a shield. "Thanks."

"It's a beautiful day, huh?"

I'm thinking of a deep chuckle that sinks through my bones and warm skin against mine. "Very."

"You taking a break from writing about your mermaids? Or is this research?"

I shake my head. "I'm just taking a break, but that novel's finished."

"Already?"

"Well, it's back with my editor. He may ask me to make more revisions." I shrug. "We'll see."

"Awesome. So you must have some free time, now?"

"Uh—" I brush the sand from the undersides of my forearms, "—well, I'm kinda already working on my next one."

It's not a lie. I _did_ start planning Rosalie's story.

"Dude, you must be like a book-writing machine, or something."

I have to laugh at that. "Yeah, tell my editor that. He was getting really stressed out for a while there. It's slow going when I can't pin down an idea."

I figure I need to be polite. "What about you? Are you on a lunch break, or something?"

"Nah. I don't work Friday afternoons."

"It's Friday?" I had no idea.

"Uh, yeah."

Huh. I glance at Eric. He's frowning, his fingers tracing patterns in the sand. Maybe I'm being rude, but I just don't care.

"I'm going to head back inside." I tell him, standing up and dusting the sand from my bum.

He jumps to his feet as well. "You live close?"

I wave kind of vaguely. "Just up there."

"Nice. Writing must pay damn well, huh?"

"Not exactly. It was my grandparents' house. They took off in a Winnebago a few years ago and left it to me."

He nods, but doesn't comment.

"Well, it was nice to see you again, Eric."

I'm pretending to look out past the breakers, but I see his grimace. "Yeah. You, too."

Feeling like I've been too much of a bitch, I offer him what I can. "I'll give Alice a call. We should all get together before she moves away for school."

He kicks at the sand, watching it spray white and gold. "Yeah, for sure."

"Cool. Well, I'll see you later."

I don't hear his reply, I'm already jogging up the sand, heading home.

* * *

_Both Isabella and Edward were reluctant for their evening to end. They stopped for dessert in a tiny French café-patisserie—or Dan's as Edward referred to it. _

"_It's more laidback by day," Edward told her, as he stepped back into his shoes. "But at night they try to make it a little more … classy."_

_Isabella, her hips swaying slightly to the music which floated out onto the sidewalk, looked at her watch in surprise. "Are they always open this late?"_

"_No, just Thursday, Friday, Saturday. They close up around four in the afternoon every day, but then over the weekend they open between ten-thirty and three."_

_His hand slid around her waist as he guided her inside._

"_How fabulous!" _

_Edward grinned at Isabella's delight as she spun in a slow circle, surveying the low-lit room with its rich, deep colors and its Belle Époque style décor. A throaty female voice was warbling the lyrics of _Quand on Vous Aime Comme Ça_ as Isabella chose their seats and Edward ordered coffee and petite fours._

_When he sat down beside her on the red velvet chaise, Edward tentatively slid an arm across her shoulders. She relaxed into his side, her wide eyes continued to dart around the space, unconsciously reaching for his other hand. Edward's lips had found her hair before he realized what he was doing—kissing her was too easy, a natural reflex. _

"_What happened here?" _

_Isabella's fingers were tracing the faint scars that dragged crisscrossing lines up his right forearm. _

"_Uh, skateboarding accident when I was fourteen."_

_Isabella's eyebrows lifted, encouraging him to continue. Edward sighed, carefully untangling his hand from hers. He rubbed his palm across his mouth and chin, and she realized belatedly that he was embarrassed._

"_You don't have to –"_

"_It's okay. So, I, um, I'm not especially, uh, coordinated when it comes to sports and stuff. I run, but that's kinda the extent of my athletic prowess." He sighed. _

_His hand dropped into his lap, and Isabella promptly reclaimed it, sliding her fingers between his._

"_My stepfather—Carlisle—he's a little younger than my mom, right? And he used to skate to work and stuff at the time." Edward chuckled. "Like, in his suit. I thought it was kind of hilarious, actually … Anyway, it was when they were dating, and maybe he wanted to bond over it or something, so he bought me a board for my birthday. He took me down to this skate park, and I was kind of getting the hang of it, slowly. But yeah, we were on our way home, and Mom and I lived at the bottom of this reasonably steep hill."_

_Isabella eyes widened as she looked up at him. "Oh."_

"_Yeah. Well, his scars are worse. He saw me stack it and tried to help me out. So I ended up scraping the hell out of my side, and down my thigh. And this—" he indicated his arm "—was from a glass bottle that someone had smashed on the curb."_

_Isabella winced. "Ouch."_

"_Ouch," Edward agreed. "But, Carlisle broke both his wrists."_

"_Oh no!"_

_Edward chuckled. "Yeah. It sucked for him. Two broken wrists—he needed help with everything. But even worse, he had to tell his girlfriend that he'd gotten her son all smashed up."_

"_But things worked out with them?"_

"_Yeah," Edward nodded, a soft smile curling his lips. "It pretty much cemented them being together, actually. Mom cared for him while his wrists were plastered. She cooked, cleaned, helped him wash—everything. He was the first boyfriend she'd ever introduced to me, so I knew they were serious, but after that … Well, they got married like, six months later."_

"_Aw, that's kind of sweet."_

"_Yeah. They're still very much in love."_

_Isabella scrutinized his face carefully. "Were you okay with that? Like, your Mom remarrying?"_

_Edward's eyes were seeing things long past as he answered, speaking as much to himself as to Isabella. "I got to watch my parents fall in love, you know? I mean, most kids don't see that—it all happened before they were born. But I got to watch them fall for each other—and at an age where I understood what was going on." _

_Isabella watched him closely as he spoke, and despite the feel of his hand twined with hers, the weight of his arm around her shoulders, and the soft fabric under her thighs, she suddenly felt as though gravity had lost its grip on her. _

_Edward blinked and smiled, looking down at Isabella. "Yeah, he's a good guy, and he loves my Mom." _

_Isabella, still vertiginous, returned his smile. _

_Edward frowned at her. "Are you okay, pretty girl?"_

"_Uh, ye-yes." _

_She exhaled a little shakily, bringing her hand to his cheek. His face moved willingly with the gentle pressure she exerted, their lips meeting in a soft kiss. And another. And another._

_Resting his forehead against hers, Edward closed his eyes. "I really like doing that."_

"_Me, too."_

_The couple sat in silence for a while; Isabella curled into Edward's side, as they simply enjoyed the fluttery feeling of new affection unfurling its wings inside them._

"_Edward, can I ask … uh, about your father?"_

_Isabella paid careful attention to his body against hers as the words left her mouth. She felt him stiffen a little, though his fingers continued to play with the ends of her hair as he spoke._

"_Mom left him when I was a baby. I don't remember him at all. He, uh …" He sighed and then pushed the words out quickly, like he didn't want the taste of them in his mouth for too long. "He was abusive, violent. Mom put up with it for too long, but then when I was born, she decided she couldn't let me grow up around him. I think I was only about three months old when we arrived in California."_

"_I'm so sorry," Isabella whispered. "That's just awful."_

"_It is," Edward agreed. "Favorite fruit?"_

_Isabella accepted the subject change with a small smile, her head tipping back against his shoulder. _

"_Pineapple. Mango. Raspberries."_

* * *

_It was well after three o'clock when Edward led Isabella out of the cozy little café space. The staff—many of whom knew Edward quite well, the place being popular with the hospital workers who did tend to keep such irregular hours—had been unwilling to interrupt them as their conversation continued to weave across both their histories, despite them being the only patrons remaining. Their kisses became more frequent and Edward pulled Isabella onto his lap, his hands moving to her hips and curling into her flesh. _

_Eventually, one of the waiters interrupted them, politely encouraging them to take their budding romance elsewhere so he and the other wait staff could close up and—presumably—go home to their beds._

_Edward and Isabella giggled and blushed, apologizing profusely to the smirking staff as they tumbled out onto the sidewalk._

"_Are you sleepy?" Isabella asked. _

_She pulled her lip between her teeth as Edward hesitated._

"_Um, no." In truth, sleep was the furthest thing from his mind, so energized was he by both the unraveling of her mind and the feel of her lips moving in symphony with his._

"_You, uh, I mean … We can go back to my place to, uh, chat some more … if you'd like?"_

"_I'd like."_

* * *

_Dawn found Edward and Isabella curled up together on the Adirondack loveseat on her verandah. An almost-empty bottle and two red wine-stained glasses were on the low table in front of them. _

_The gold light streaking the sky, beautiful as it was, could not draw Edward's attention away from the girl in his arms. Isabella had fallen asleep about twenty minutes before, her head against his chest. _

_His fingers moved slowly across her hair, watching the light dance across the soft strands. Her lips were pouted slightly, still swollen from the kisses he had heaped upon them, and her small sighs and snuffles occasionally punctuated the still morning._

_Shifting slightly, Edward straightened the pillow she'd pushed behind his back when she'd taken his wineglass, locked her fingers in his hair and pressed her mouth against his. He wasn't exactly comfortable, with his back twisted against the arm of the chair, but he didn't particularly want to wake her. _

_Ten minutes later, the pressure in his bladder was increasing rapidly._

"_Isabella?" He shook her shoulder carefully. "Hey, wake up, pretty girl."_

_She sat up immediately, blinking. "Oh my gosh, I fell asleep on you? I'm so sorry!"_

"_Don't be," he murmured, kissing her softly. "You're gorgeous when you're asleep. I didn't want to wake you."_

_Isabella smiled, her eyes not meeting his. "We should get some sleep, but uh, you shouldn't drive. Not yet." She waved her hand toward the wine bottle. "That, and being awake for so long."_

"_Yeah, probably. Um, I can just crash on your couch for a few hours. If that's okay?"_

_Her head tilted, her fingers twisting a lock of her hair into a tight rope. "I don't mind, if you … uh, I mean, you can sleep in my bed. Um, if you want. But, if you'd rather the couch, I mean, I understand. Uh, I … just sleeping, of course. But you don't have to –"_

_Edward fought his smile and lost. "Just sleeping."_

"_Just sleeping."_

_Dressed in his boxers and an old shirt of her father's that Isabella had found for him to sleep in, Edward paused at the door to her bedroom. _

_Isabella was drawing the curtains, and had changed into a pale blue tank top and some stripy pajama pants. She turned, smiling as she saw him leaning against the doorjamb. "Can you get the light?"_

* * *

Yawning, I hold down the Command and S keys, making sure I don't lose any of Edward and Isabella's time together. Checking the clock, I shake my head at myself. It's incredibly late—or early—and I haven't eaten dinner. Again.

Without turning on any lights in the kitchen, I pull a meal out of the freezer. I watch the plastic container as it revolves in the microwave. Another huge yawn has my eyes watering.

I take the container of reheated pasta back into the living room, and, with only the light from my laptop screen for illumination, quickly force it down, barely tasting a thing. I set the empty container on the coffee table and pull my laptop back onto my lap. The heat of it against my thighs is reassuring.

I close my eyes.

He's here.

I shake my head. "I'm going crazy, aren't I?"

I can almost feel his chuckle roll through me as I imagine him pulling me back against his chest, his arms around my waist, his lips in my hair.

"Define crazy?"

I sigh. "I'm pretty sure a writer letting a character walk out of the pages of his story and into her real life sits well and truly inside whatever definition you come up with."

I imagine his fingers in my hair, sweeping it out of my face. His lips are hot against my neck.

"Isabella?"

"Mmm."

"Write us waking up."

* * *

_It was well past lunchtime when Isabella finally awoke, the air in her bedroom heavy with the heat of the day. Her back was damp with sweat, and her hair was sticking to her neck and throat. Sitting up, she gathered the mess of hair into a topknot and secured it with a hair tie she had left on her nightstand. _

_It was only then that she noticed the man in her bed. _

_Edward smiled sleepily as he looked up at her. He rolled to his side, bunching the pillow under his neck._

"_Good morning." His voice was crackly with sleep, but warm._

"_Morning. Did you, uh, did you sleep all right?"_

_He nodded against the pillow. "Yeah, really well. You? I didn't steal all the blankets, did I?"_

"_I don't think I would have noticed," Isabella said, smiling. "We went to sleep so late, I'm fairly certain I would have been too tired to let something like being cold keep me awake."_

_Edward chuckled, pushing himself up so he was sitting opposite her, mirroring her cross-legged position. _

"_What's the time?" _

_Isabella looked at the clock on her nightstand. "It's—gosh, it's almost two."_

"_Huh." Edward shrugged. "We did go to bed at around six this morning, after all."_

"_True." _

_Isabella stretched her arms above her head, and Edward felt the tips of his fingers drawn to her skin like magnets to iron. He traced the sliver of skin revealed as she yawned, chuckling as she jumped._

"_Sorry." _

_Isabella's eyebrows lifted as she saw his smirk. "No, you're not." _

_Edward laughed, pink staining his cheeks—whether from the stifling heat of the room or something else, Isabella couldn't tell. "I am sorry I startled you."_

_Still smiling, she climbed out of bed. Edward assumed she was going to open the curtains, but instead, she flicked the air-conditioning on before disappearing into the bathroom. _

_She splashed her face with cold water, realizing too late that she hadn't removed her makeup from the evening before. With a sigh, she pulled out a removing wipe and began to wipe away the blackness that was starting to run down her face. _

"_Edward?" _

"_Yeah?" _

_She jumped, his voice closer than she had anticipated. He stepped into the bathroom, smiling as he watched her carefully wipe her face clean. _

"_I was just going to ask you if you've had enough of me for one day—or whether you'd like to go out for a very late breakfast?"_

_Edward ran his hands through his hair, meeting her eyes through the mirror. "I'd like that very much. But, um, do you happen to own any more of your dad's shirts?"_

* * *

_Isabella peered through the open doors, her expression bewildered as she took in the way the clean, white lighting and simple furnishings had transformed the space from a sumptuously appointed café into a quaint little patisserie. The chaise lounges and low wooden tables had been replaced with more modern, minimalist tables and chairs, and the sunshine streamed in through the open windows, which must have been heavily curtained the night before. "Oh!" _

"_Right?"_

"_It's like … are you sure this is the same place?"_

_Edward chuckled. "I told you—it's so much more laidback by day."_

_He led her through the café and out into the little paved courtyard, his fingers linked with hers. _

_Isabella flipped her sunglasses onto her head as she studied the menu. "Oh, thank goodness—they have breakfast all day."_

_Halfway through their meal, Edward startled as firm hands landed on his shoulders. "What the –"_

"_Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you …"_

_Edward groaned, swatting at the two men standing behind him, their grins matching though they looked nothing alike. Isabella recognized them as the two men she'd seen him with the first time they'd met._

"_It's your birthday?" she asked, her eyes wide._

_Edward shook his head. "Uh, yeah." He sighed. "Guys, this is Isabella. Isabella, this is Peter." _

_The shorter, dark-haired man—the younger of the two, she guessed—winked at her as he shook her hand._

"_And this is Garrett." _

_He indicated the taller, thinner man with sandy blond hair. His blue eyes sparkled with mischief as he pressed a kiss to her hand._

"_It's so lovely to meet you, Isabella."_

"_Would you, um, would you guys like to join us?" she offered, looking to Edward. He shrugged, seeming somewhat resigned._

"_No, no—we won't interrupt your date," Peter told her. "We were on our way home when we saw you, and we just had to wish the big guy a happy birthday."_

"_Sure you did." The smile-crinkles around his eyes belied Edward's dry response._

"_All right, champ. We know when we're not welcome." Garrett winked at Isabella, waving off her protests. "We'll leave you two to it. I'm sure we'll see you again soon, gorgeous."_

* * *

_It was only as they wandered back towards Edward's car, their bellies full of pain au chocolat and café au lait, that Isabella remembered Garrett and Peter's words. _

_She turned to Edward, slipping her hand out of his. "Happy birthday, Edward."_

_He smiled. "Thank you."_

"_I hope I'm not, uh, keeping you from any plans?"_

"_Nah. I'm going to my parents' place for dinner later tonight, but that's it. No other plans."_

_Isabella considered him for a moment, feeling that fluttery giddiness returning as their eyes locked, as Edward's head dipped, bringing his lips to hers. Her fingers wound into his hair, while his arms encircled her waist. They both gasped at the riptide of desire that was rapidly dragging them under, and the intensity that flowed between them as they kissed again and again and again shook through them like sparks beneath their skin. _

_It took all his effort to pull back, but Edward released Isabella's lips, stepping back, his hands resting on her hips. For a moment only charged silence surrounded them, but slowly the noises of the afternoon began to impinge on them. It was uncomfortable, the intrusion of the world on their stolen moment of intimacy._

_Their fingers tangled, neither of them spoke until Edward had pulled back into Isabella's driveway. _

"_I, uh, I guess you probably need to go get ready," she said, unbuckling the seat belt._

_Edward nodded, and Isabella could see the shadows in his green eyes—he was as reluctant to leave as she was for him to go. It reassured her, knowing he felt this pull, this attraction, as deeply as she did. _

_She leaned across the console, kissed him once more, then swung the passenger door open._

"_It's been—" she shook her head, grasping for a word that could possibly convey the feelings coursing through her, "—wonderful, really."_

_Edward caught her hand as she went to slide out of the car. "Thank you, Isabella. I, uh, I'd really love to see you again."_

"_I should hope so."_

_He smiled at her playfulness. "Can I, well …" His teeth slid over his bottom lip. "Can I see you tomorrow?"_

_Isabella nodded. "Of course. Call me, uh, whenever."_

_As he drove home, his cheeks aching from the smile that stretched his whole face, Edward wondered if it were actually possible to fall in love inside of twenty-four hours. If he wasn't already laid flat on his back, he suspected he was well on his way to falling head over heels for Isabella Swan._

* * *

I close the laptop, but linger in the darkness of my living room. "What do you think?"

I can feel his smile against my neck. "Perfect."

The words come easy when they're whispered into the black of night. "I think I've fallen hard, Edward."

"Me, too." He sighs, hot breath ruffling my hair. "Come to bed, pretty girl."

* * *

**A/N: You lovely people blow me completely away with your kind and thoughtful reviews. Thank you so much!**

**Tam, you are sunshine and sea-salty air. Thank you so much for everything.**

**Shell xx**

* * *

**P.S. Make sure you check out the entries for the "Season of Our Discontent" Anonymous Angst Contest. u/3142288/Season-of-Our-Discontent**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

* * *

_"When genuine passion moves you, say what you've got to say, and say it hot."__ D.H. Lawrence_

* * *

**From: Victoria Scott.  
****Subject: Words.**

**Hi, Bella!**

**Yeah, I don't really know, to be honest. I'm still working through a bunch of revisions for it, so we'll see. Your suggestions were really helpful—I've mentioned that, right? I'll say it again, just in case:**

**Thank you! I appreciated the time you put into going over it for me, and some of your questions really helped me fill out things that may have been a little unclear. So, you're awesome!**

**Um, as far as bossy characters, I can't say I've had them "talk" to me the way you describe, though I certainly understand that impetus to write and write at the expense of real life. And yeah, it's problematic at times, and it has cost me a few relationships, but I don't know if I would change it, even if I **_**could**_**, you know?**

**However, your descriptions reminded me of something. I read Edith Wharton's autobiography (it's called **_**A Backward Glance**_**, if you're interested) a few years ago, and I pulled it out after reading your email. Listen to this:**

… _**that strange moment when the vaguely adumbrated characters whose adventures one is preparing to record **__**are suddenly THERE, themselves, in the flesh, in possession of one, and in command of one's voice and hand.**_

_**I may be strolling about casually in my mind, and suddenly a character will start up, coming seemingly from nowhere. Again, but more breathlessly, I watch; and presently the character draws nearer, and seems to become aware of me, and to feel the shy but desperate need to unfold his or her tale. **_

**And:**

… _**what I want to try to capture is an impression of the elusive moment when **__**these people who haunt my brain actually begin to speak within me with their own voices**__**. The situating of my tale, and its descriptive and narrative portions, I am conscious of conducting, though often unaware of how the story first came to me, pleading to be told; but as soon as the dialogue begins, **__**I become merely a recording instrument**__**, and my hand never hesitates because my mind has not to choose, but only to set down what these stupid or intelligent, lethargic or passionate, people say to each other in a language, and with arguments, that appear to be all their own.**_

**Or:**

_**I do not think I can get any nearer than this to the sources of my story-telling; I can only say that the process, though it takes place in some secret region on the sheer edge of consciousness, is always illuminated by the full light of my critical attention. **__**What happens there is as real and as tangible as my encounters with my friends and neighbours, often more so, though on an entirely different plane.**__** It produces in me a great emotional excitement, quite unrelated to the joy or sorrow caused by real happenings, but **__**as intense, and with as great an appearance of reality; **_

**Anyway, I'm not going to quote the whole thing to you, but this sounds kind of similar, right? The idea that it's the character instructing the unfolding of the story, rather than you dreaming it up?**

**I don't know, Bea. To be honest, I could really use some bossy characters telling me what to write! LOL. **

**Seriously, though, my suggestion is to just write. Maybe when the story reaches its conclusion you'll find the character lets you go. I'm hesitant to use words like dissociation etc., because you're obviously quite aware that this is happening in your head, even if it feels quite real. I don't know, babe—kids have imaginary friends and that's supposed to be healthy, right? Why is it such a problem when you're an adult? **

**So yeah, my advice is—finish this story, then see what happens. If this "character" won't let you alone then, or it's causing you real distress, maybe it's worth speaking to a professional who understands the goings on of people's brains. Otherwise, embrace it!**

**Anyway, I've attached my revised final chapter—could you have a look and let me know if this works better?**

**Thanks, babe.**

**Talk to you soon.**

**Vic. xx**

* * *

My elbow resting on the edge of the desk, my fingers push tight circles into my temple as I read and reread Victoria's email.

I do know he's not real, don't I?

Yes. I know he's not real. I know he's a figment of my imagination. A figment I've somehow fallen in love with. Fucking fantastic. That's really taking the imaginary friend thing to a whole other level.

"Just write." I say it out loud, tasting the advice.

It's sweet.

* * *

_Isabella unlocked her front door, stepped inside and sank back against the door once it had swung closed. _

_Despite the warm, golden light pooling through her house, reflecting off the polished wood floors and throwing shadows against the walls, her house had never felt emptier. _

No,_ she thought, _it's not that the house is empty—it's me. It's like I left part of me with him.

_Even after James moved out of her apartment last year, she hadn't felt this bereft—this acute sense of having been ripped away from where she belonged._

You're being ridiculous_, she told herself. _You've only been on one proper date. You don't even really know him.

_She pushed away from the door, kicking off her shoes and padding out to the living room. _

_She dumped her bag on the coffee table and flopped onto the sofa. Picking up the remote, she flicked on the rarely used television. She flipped through the channels, looking for something to hold her attention for at least a few hours._

_Even after digging out the window cleaner and wiping the dusty screen shiny again, she still couldn't settle on watching anything. She clicked the remote and turned the set off with a sigh._

_She stripped off her clothes in her living room, ducking naked into her bedroom to pull on a navy blue swimsuit, then jogged down onto the still-crowded beach._

_Even as the sun hung low in the afternoon sky, its heat still radiated across the sand, and Isabella felt her skin grow slick with sweat as she ran toward the surf._

* * *

_Edward was smiling when he pulled into his parents' driveway, his mind still full of Isabella, the taste of her kisses still potent on his lips. _

_He walked through the unlocked door without knocking, calling out to warn his mother and Carlisle that he had arrived._

_His mother's voice echoed down the stairs, telling him she'd be right down. He wandered into the kitchen, finding his stepfather peeling a mound of potatoes that would obviously feed more than three people._

"_Happy birthday, Edward." Carlisle wiped his hands on a dishcloth before he pulled him into a strong embrace, clapping him firmly on the shoulder. _

"_Thanks, Carlisle. How are you?" _

_His stepfather shrugged, using his wrist to wipe his fair hair out of his bright blue eyes. "I can't complain. And you? You're looking … great. You look really happy."_

"_I am," Edward admitted. He frowned, though, as he looked at the pile of potatoes that had been stripped out of their skins. "Are you expecting anyone else?"_

_Carlisle laughed. "No, no. She told me I wasn't allowed to match-make on your birthday. Your mother is making a potato bake to go with dinner, and she wanted to make an extra one for you to take home."_

_Edward's relief seeped from his lungs in a deep breath. "She doesn't need to send me home with food. I'm perfectly capable of feeding myself."_

"_I know you are." His mother's voice made him turn. "But I like to send you home with food."_

_She patted his face as he swept her up into his arms, kissing both her cheeks._

"_Happy birthday, son."_

"_Thank you, Mom. You're looking well." _

_She was, and it was a great relief to him. It seemed that having been given the all-clear had lifted several years of stress and worry from her shoulders, and smoothed some of the wrinkles from her brow._

"_Thank you. You look …" She tilted her head, searching his eyes. "Well, I'm sure you'll tell us when you're ready."_

_Edward chuckled and kissed her forehead again. He was touched by his mother's perceptiveness, though he wasn't surprised that she had seen something different in him. He certainly felt different since Isabella had walked into his life—or he into hers, as the case may be._

_After dinner, Carlisle poured three glasses of Pedro Ximénez, while Esme served them slices of the torte she'd made earlier that afternoon. Edward was relieved as he watched her move the knife through the dessert—he had always hated candles and cakes and being sung to._

_Edward groaned in pleasure as he slipped a forkful of the dessert into his mouth. "Oh, wow. What the heck is this, Mom?" _

_Esme beamed at his obvious enjoyment. "It's a caramel-pistachio torte with halvah and dark chocolate."_

"_It's amazing. Can I have the recipe?"_

"_Of course." She tried to hide her smile behind her napkin, but Edward caught it and winked._

_As he was saying his goodbyes a few hours later, Esme hugged him fiercely. "Whoever she is, I can't wait to meet her," she whispered._

_Edward smiled, squeezing her gently. "Soon. I promise."_

* * *

_As Miles Davis' trumpet pleaded its way through _Saeta_, Edward tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. He hesitated, then turned the stereo volume down, pulling his phone from his pocket and activating the speaker function._

"_Hello?"_

"_Isabella, hi. It's Edward."_

_Her voice was soft, and he could hear the smile in it. "Hey. How was dinner with your parents?"_

"_It was lovely. My mom made this torte, and oh man, it was just amazing."_

_Isabella giggled. "You have a sweet tooth, huh?"_

"_Yeah, pretty much." He chuckled. "Speaking of … I, uh, well, I have the leftovers on the passenger seat, and no particular inclination to go home and eat it by myself."_

"_Is that so?"_

"_Uh-huh."_

"_I guess you'd better come over then."_

_Edward grinned. "I'll be there in about ten minutes."_

* * *

_He hesitated, his fist curled to rap on Isabella's front door, his other hand holding a Tupperware container full of his mother's torte. _

What the hell am I doing? I've only known her for two days.

_And then the door opened, and Isabella's smiling face was all he could see—was all that mattered. _

_His lips tingled and seemed to throb—urging him to press them against hers. _

_Isabella bit her lip as she stood in the doorway, looking at the man standing on her welcome mat, his features illuminated by the porch light. "Hey."_

"_Hi." He stepped into the house, pressing a kiss first to her cheek, and then to her lips._

_Pulling back, he frowned, his tongue flicking at his lips. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "You, uh … you're all sandy … and salty."_

_It was only then that he realized Isabella was dressed in a swimsuit, a sarong knotted at her waist. Her long hair had dried into a tumble of messy waves, and sand adhered to much of her bare skin._

_She looked down at herself. "Oh. Yeah. I went down to the beach for a while, and then when I came back up I got distracted writing. I guess I forgot to shower." She shook her head, and more sand trickled out of her hair, spreading across the floor. _

"_Come on in," she told Edward. _

_Her cheeks were flushed pink, though Edward wasn't sure if that was induced by embarrassment or sunshine. _

_He kicked off his shoes and followed her into her kitchen, setting his mother's Tupperware container on the bench. _

"_Wine?" Isabella offered._

"_Sure, that'd be great."_

_She paused, her forehead creasing. "I don't have any dessert wine. I only have some—oh, I know …" She grinned, opening the fridge and pulling a bottle from the door._

_Edward watched as she pulled the foil from the neck and started to untwist the muselet. It was only as she tipped the flute on its side and started pouring the wine that he realized something was amiss._

"_Sparkling red wine?"_

_She smiled, her eyes focused on her task. "Yeah, it's a sparkling syrah. I think it's mostly been an Australian thing, but a number of Californian winemakers are starting to mess around with it."_

_She handed him a glass, touching it with her own while her deep brown eyes locked with his. "Happy Birthday."_

"_Thank you."_

_Edward took a small sip, then looked into the glass in surprise. "It's not sweet?"_

_Isabella smiled. "Nope." _

"_It's really interesting."_

_She nodded. "Yeah, I quite like it. I mean you've got all these rich raspberry and blackberry flavors, but then there's like earthy, mushroomy notes alongside the vanilla …" She trailed off, shaking her head. "Sorry, I get carried away."_

_Edward chuckled. "I like you carried away." He pulled the lid from the container he'd set on the bench, while Isabella peered over his shoulder._

"_That looks fantastic."_

"_Just wait 'til you taste it." _

_She handed him a knife, then gathered some plates and forks while he cut two slices of the decadent-looking treat. _

"_Pretty girl, there's sand everywhere!" Edward said with a laugh, feeling the grains of sand under his feet as he set the knife in the sink._

_Isabella frowned, her bare feet moving across the wood to feel the grains under her toes. "Ugh. I'm going to have to vacuum." She shook her head and more sand cascaded to the floor._

_Edward watched, his lips stretching into an adoring smile. _

"_Whatever, I'll do it in the morning." She sighed. "Come on."_

_Edward balanced both plates in one hand, grabbing his glass with the other, while Isabella carried the bottle and her own glass. They settled, as they had in the early hours of the morning, onto the loveseat, the summer nighttime closing around them._

* * *

_The sound of wet kisses and soft groans carried on the lazy breeze that swept through Isabella's hair and slid over Edward's bare chest. His shirt lay crumpled on the decking where she had tossed it in her haste to feel his skin beneath her fingertips._

_He released her lips, tracing his tongue down her neck and across her shoulder, tasting the salt from her swim. He chuckled as his tongue ran over yet more sand, and he pulled back, the laughter echoed in his eyes. "Did you roll around in the sand or something?"_

_Isabella giggled. "No, I wasn't paying attention when I was coming out of the surf and a wave knocked me over." She rolled her eyes. "I meant to have a shower, really."_

"_And you weren't exactly expecting company," Edward added._

"_Sorry. You must be sick of getting sand in your mouth."_

_Edward shrugged. "It's not my favorite thing. But I'll endure it, for you." _

_His lips found hers again, their kiss deepening immediately. _

"_Ack!" This time it was Isabella who pulled back. "Your tongue is sandy. I'm so sorry. I need to have a shower."_

_She climbed off his lap, untying the sarong, which she hung over the balcony railing. "Come on."_

_Edward followed behind her, his eyes roving over her tanned legs and arms, her bare back, and the curve of her backside._

_When she walked into her bedroom, Edward hesitated in the doorway, unsure as to whether he should follow. Isabella turned and smiled, her hand moving in circles as she motioned for him to come in. _

"_Make yourself at home," she told him, waving her hand in the direction of her bed. "I won't be long." _

_She gathered some clothes from her drawers and disappeared into her bathroom._

_Edward sat on the foot of her bed, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. Sitting on her bed, still high on the sweet and salty taste of her skin, and knowing she was naked behind the door in front of him, his body was reacting with an intensity that caught him off guard. _

It's too soon_, he told himself. _Settle down. She's special. You don't have to rush this. Savor it.

_He'd made very little progress in convincing his body to calm down when Isabella opened the door, steam framing her as she smiled down at him. Her dark hair was still damp, and longer than he had realized, the curls pulled straight by the weight of the water soaked into the strands. He smiled as he took in the simple turquoise tank top and the patterned skirt that flowed around her knees. _

"_Less sandy?" he asked, shooting her a wink._

"_Much less sandy," she agreed. "I didn't realize how bad I was—the bottom of my shower looks like a freaking sandpit!"_

_Edward laughed, reaching for her. She stepped towards him immediately, bending forward to kiss his nose as his arms circled her waist. _

_As he turned his face up and captured her lips again, Isabella's fingers traced over the hot skin of his bare shoulders, and all she could think about was pushing him back into the mattress and relieving him of his remaining clothes._

Is it too soon?

_Isabella wasn't sure, but she also didn't think she really cared. She had never felt this before, this all-consuming need to be touched by someone, this certainty that she was missing something when Edward wasn't close._

_Before she could climb into his lap, Edward had pulled her into him, and rolled them both over so that he hovered over her on the mattress. She giggled and gasped as her feet flopped over the side of the bed._

* * *

"Are we going to do it?" The wind carries his whisper.

"I don't know. What do you think? Is it too soon?"

"I don't think so. Have you been thinking about it a lot?"

I sigh. "I've dreamed about it."

"Tell me."

I shake my head. Leaving my laptop, I wander, as though in a trance, into my bedroom, not bothering to flick on any lights. Stripping off my clothes, I slide between the sheets.

He comes, too. "Tell me, sweetheart."

I sigh. "We, uh, we've never made love. But …"

Despite the dark, I can see the smirk twisting his lips. "But …"

The words tumble over my lips in a rush. "But you've made me … uh, climax … repeatedly."

His voice is deep and rough. "Tell me."

I can feel the flames of embarrassment licking at my cheeks.

He is insistent. "Tell me."

"Your fingers, y-your tongue."

His hands are between my legs, exploring, finding, possessing. "Like this?"

"Yes … _Oh_. Oh, fuck, Edward."

I'm playing with fire, but I just don't care.

_Burn me_, I think.

"And my tongue?"

I can't speak. The noise that slides out of my throat should embarrass me but all I can focus on is his tongue, his fingers—my fingers—there's no difference. I'm awash in sensation, the pressure building low. Each stroke and circle stretches my nerves taut, until they snap and I dissolve into bliss.

As my breathing slows, as my heart finds its usual rhythm, the darkness seems to contract. It closes in on me, still and silent.

Empty.

I curl in on myself, my knees to my chest, trying to swallow down the lumpy sob that's constricting my throat.

He's not here.

* * *

"You okay, Cygnet?"

I shrug off Dad's question. "Fine."

He strums a few chords, his attention seemingly fixed on where his fingers are curled around the neck of his guitar. "It's okay if you don't feel like talking about stuff, girlie. But you don't need to lie to me. I can see you're flat. Listless."

_Listless._ I repeat it in my head, hearing the consonants rub over each other.

It's exactly how I feel.

"I can't explain it." It's almost true.

Dad looks up, his dark eyes framed with a concerned frown. "I'm here."

"I know."

"Charlie! Bella!"

I grimace as Mom's shout reaches us.

"Come help me with these groceries."

Dad sets his guitar on its stand, and scratches at the whiskers shading his jaw. He doesn't say anything more, just squeezes my shoulder and kisses my forehead, then sighs as he follows the sounds of my mother babbling at us from the kitchen.

"I found this recipe for this amazing sounding quinoa salad, Bea. I thought you could help me make it."

I wink at Dad, who is making disgusted faces behind my mother's back. "Sure, Mom."

He hands me a beer while Mom is busy putting canned goods in the pantry. Too quiet for Mom to hear, he says, "Please tell me we can have meat with this salad."

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"I think we should do some lamb with the salad. Maybe rub some backstrap with za'atar and then grill it."

Mom looks between Dad and me, then rolls her eyes. "Fine. But I'm not going to the butcher's."

Dad grabs the still unopened beer in my hands and shoves it back in the fridge. "Let's go!"

He's smiling widely as I slide into the passenger seat of his pickup. "Good job, girlie. You got me some meat for lunch, and got me out of having to unpack the groceries."

"I'm pretty talented."

* * *

"So, Bella, honey. Did you end up catching up with Jared?"

Frankly, I'm surprised it's taken my mother this long to ask me about him. I sigh, rinsing off another plate and handing it to her to dry.

"Yeah. I went to dinner with him, Alice, and this other guy, Eric, maybe, oh, I don't know, three weeks ago, now."

"Oh."

I bite my lip to hide my smile.

She lasts less than a minute. "And? How was it? I didn't know Alice had a boyfriend."

"She doesn't. It wasn't a double date or anything, Mom. It was just a bunch of friends hanging out."

"Oh." She sighs, flicking me with the wet tea towel. Then her lips curve into a smirk. "So you went out with _two_ single boys, huh? Were they cute?"

I shrug. "Yeah, I guess. Eric's a personal trainer, so he's all gym-junkie muscles and stuff. Doesn't do anything for me really. Jared's … well, he's a sweet guy, I guess. Funny, kind, reasonably attractive."

Mom purses her lips. "Are you going to see either of them again?"

"Yeah, Alice is moving away for school in a few weeks, so we'll hang out before then."

"That's not what I meant." The dishcloth snaps against my bum. "You're not going to date either of them, see if there's something more there? You know, you don't have to wait for them to ask, Bella. There's no reason you couldn't ask one of them out."

"Mom." I sigh, cringing a little. "They both asked me out, afterwards. But, I'm just –"

"Please don't tell me you're not ready, Isabella. It's been what, nine months since you and Jasper split?"

"I didn't say that. I'm just not interested in either of them, not like that."

I hate the look of disappointment creasing my mother's face, but it is what it is.

"Isabella –"

"You two finished gossiping yet?" Dad wanders back into the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge.

He pulls a beer from the door and points it at me. I nod, and he pops the lid off and hands it to me with a frown.

"What are you harassing the girl about, Ren?"

"My pathetically lacking love life," I answer for her.

Dad hands her a glass of Moscato as she frowns at my flippant response.

"I just don't want you to be lonely, baby."

"I'm not lonely," I tell her. _I have Edward._

Mom tips her head at me, and I avoid meeting her eyes.

"You're blushing," she says.

"Am I? It _is_ kinda hot." I press the icy beer to my traitor cheek.

"You've met someone," she accuses. "You have. There's a boy making you all blushy and squirmy."

I shake my head, and thankfully, Dad comes to my rescue.

"She'll tell us when she's ready," he says, frowning at Mom. "And she doesn't need a boyfriend to be a whole person."

"Yeah, Mom." I poke my tongue out at her. "I don't need a boyfriend to be a whole person."

Behind my teasing, I'm wondering if I really believe that. If I really believe I'm complete without a complement, without someone whose soul my own recognizes.

And how is it that I can feel like I do know Edward—that I can quite literally care for, be consumed by, _love,_ someone who I know doesn't exist? How can I feel like something deep within recognizes him, is drawn to him, when he doesn't—can't—have a soul?

"I know that, Charlie …"

I'm only vaguely aware of my parents' bickering as I take another sip of my beer, trying to calm the questions that are bouncing through my mind, so many all at once that it feels like my head is full of static.

There are no answers for me to find in the white noise that fills my ears.

Mom and Dad have stopped arguing. I look over my shoulder and sigh. They're lost in each other, sharing small kisses and deep stares.

I leave the half drunk beer on the counter and collect my keys. I'm sure it will take them hours to realize I've left.

When I get home, I uncork a bottle of Oregon Pinot Noir Rosé and drink far too much, far too quickly, as I prowl through the house, restless and frustrated. My insides feel jumbled and constricted, like there is simply too much of me to fit inside my skin.

By the time I'm on my fourth glass, the house is cloaked in darkness, and my steps are slowing, twisting as straight lines begin to curve and blur.

I throw open every window and slide open the doors to the balcony, inviting the breeze and the balmy night air inside.

Inviting him in.

"Are you drunk, pretty girl?"

"I hope so."

"Why?"

I'm feeling petulant. "Because."

"Talk to me, sweetheart."

"There's … too much inside me. Too many thoughts, too many feelings. I feel stretched, like I'm going to start coming apart at the seams."

I imagine his lips against my hair, his arms around my waist.

"What can I do? How can I help?"

"I don't know," I whisper. "I don't know what I want." It's a lie.

"I think you do."

Frustration pulses hot, I spit the words into the dark. "I want you. But I can't fucking have you."

"You can," he tells me, his voice as patient as the ocean breeze that carries it. "Whatever you want. Have it. Take it. _Write it_."

* * *

_Each breath pushing her breasts up against his chest, Isabella looked up at Edward, her eyes wild, dark hair tangled around her as it soaked water into her comforter._

_He was frozen above her, his jaw clenched tight, most of his weight braced on his arms. But when she curled upwards, her stomach muscles shuddering with the effort, and pressed her lips to his, Edward could feel his restraint slipping away. The ropes he had bound himself with—_it's too soon, take your time, there's no rush_—loosened with each movement of her lips and tongue against his own, with each pass her soft fingers made up his arms, over his shoulders and down his back._

_He let his body lower onto Isabella's with a sigh, and her legs parted to cradle him, their hips pressing together. She gasped, and Edward groaned, feeling as though he were sinking right through her skin, consumed with the feel of her warmth beneath him._

_Isabella's fingers twisted through his hair, anchoring herself against the desire that was coursing through her and threatening to cast her adrift into choppy waves of want and need. Edward rocked his hips against hers, slow, searching, and her body arched to meet his in answer to his unspoken question_

_Their kiss deepened as they exchanged breathy moans, and she felt his fingers at her waist, slipping under the hem of her tank top, tracing against her skin and pulling a gasp from her lungs._

"_Can … I …" Edward found it too much of an effort to remove his lips from Isabella's kisses in order to speak. He tugged at the hem again, hoping she would understand._

"_Oh … Yes."_

_She was panting as his mouth moved to her neck, sucking and tasting the shower-clean skin. _

_He tugged again at the stretchy turquoise fabric, and Isabella giggled as she felt the impatience in his fingers. Edward pulled back, his sea green eyes bemused as he looked down at her. _

"_What's so funny?" His voice was deeper, his desire choking, making the words rasp from his throat._

_Isabella smiled. Her lips felt swollen from his kisses—she liked it, the feeling of her blood pulsing hot beneath them. "I can't take it off when you're on top of me, silly."_

"_Oh." Presented with the reality of seeing her at least partially naked, the ability to construct his thoughts into complete sentences had completely abandoned him._

_As Edward lifted his weight from her torso, his eyes darted between her face and her chest, like he couldn't decide where to look. Isabella smiled, pleased by his obvious desire to see her unclothed, but also by the way his eyes were constantly drawn back to her own—like he wanted to see more than just her body bared to him. _

_Some small voice in her mind wondered if getting naked with a man she'd only met two days earlier was entirely appropriate, but she silenced it, spurred on by the heat that was sparking where Edward's fingers were trailing across the space between her skirt and top._

_As she wriggled beneath him and pulled the top up over her head, Isabella watched Edward closely. She watched his eyes widen then clench tight, watched the muscles in his throat work._

"_You're so beautiful," he told her, forcing his eyes open. "So beautiful."_

_His eyes closed again, and Isabella smiled. She_ felt_ beautiful, the way he couldn't quite bear to look at her, like she was the sun and it hurt him to gaze upon her for too long._

_Her hands smoothed along his shoulders, feeling the muscles tensed beneath his skin, then traced up to his face. His eyes opened as her palms curved around his cheeks, his jaw. They burned bright, like copper nails in a fire—green flames that scorched and sparked._

_Edward leaned down, reclaiming her lips. His kiss, in contrast to the fierce want and desire she could read in his eyes, was gentle and adoring, cherishing, and sent her stomach somersaulting towards her toes. _

_As Isabella gasped for air, Edward's lips traced lower, small kisses peppered down her neck, his tongue trailing across her collarbone, then slow, savoring kisses that traveled between her breasts and down to her belly button. _

_Isabella pressed up against him, a silent plea for more, and Edward's mouth began to climb her ribcage, the stubble that darkened his jaw rasping against the underside of her left breast. _

_She could tell he had found the black ink that curled around her side, halfway between her waist and armpit, when he paused, his breath hot and damp as he traced the cursive, first with his finger, and then with his tongue._

"_The dream was always running ahead of me." He spoke the words with a reverence that made her breath stop in her throat. "Slow down, pretty girl. Let me catch up." _

_She wasn't sure he meant for her to hear the words, but before she could question him, his mouth resumed its leisurely ascent._

"_I can see your heart beating," he murmured, his lips barely leaving her skin. _

_Her eyes almost crossing as she tried to focus, Isabella saw the slight pulse of her breast as her blood pumped through the organ hidden beneath it._

_Edward's lips curved into half a smile as he watched her blink and try to focus. The smooth white and rose-pink of her breasts blurred away to black encircled by deep brown. _

_Their gazes locked and Edward lifted himself over her, his arms shaking a little with the effort, and kissed her with an intensity that caught them both off guard. This new, consuming, and almost-terrifying emotion that ignited where their lips met and rushed like blowback through every synapse and nerve. _

_His lips parted as the breath swept out of him._

"_I – … You – …" He shook his head. _It's too soon.

"_I know," she whispered. "Me, too."_

_The fear fled then, chased away by the knowledge that this—whatever it was—was not something they were experiencing alone. _

_Their kisses grew messy and urgent, their hips moving frantically—denim against gauzy cotton—as they let their bodies say the things they couldn't yet pin down in their minds._

_As heat swelled inside of her, Isabella couldn't believe what she was feeling._ Is this really happening? Like this?

It is.

"_Oh." _

_Her quiet exclamation made Edward smile, even as his eyes squeezed tight against his own orgasm._

_Drowsy and blissed out, his smile lazy, he rolled over, pulling a floppy and sated Isabella onto his chest, his fingers tracing the curve of her spine, around her shoulder blades, then circling meaningless patterns across her back until she drifted off into a contented sleep._

_He squirmed a little, cringing as he felt the stickiness inside his jeans. Easing Isabella off his chest, he slid off the bed and ducked into her bathroom. Showering quickly, he left his messy clothes in a bundle on the tiled floor. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he stepped back into Isabella's bedroom, drew the curtains and flicked off the bedside lamp._

_He looked down at himself and shrugged, climbing into bed beside her with the damp towel still secured around him. Isabella immediately curled towards him, her hand finding his shoulder as she sighed in her sleep. _

_Sleep took its time in finding Edward. As he waited for it to claim him, he stared into the darkness, Isabella's fingers clasped in his hand, reveling in the quiet sound of her breathing and the stillness that cocooned them._

* * *

**A/N: Lovely people, you continue to humble me with your support, your tweets and reviews. Thank you so much.**

**MissWinkles is wonderful, the DTCPS dames are delightful. **

**Tam is totally talented and truly terrific.**

**Love, Shell xx**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

* * *

"_I am irritated by my own writing. I am like a violinist whose ear is true, but whose fingers refuse to reproduce precisely the sound he hears within." Gustave Flaubert_

* * *

"Isabella-bella-bella."

"Mmm," I smile as I stretch, my sheets twisted around my ankles. I'm naked, exposed to the sunlight that streams through the window, heating my back.

"Wake up, pretty girl."

I bury my face in my pillow. "Don't want to," I groan.

"I think you do."

I imagine his body pressed against mine, his fingers trailing up my arm, down my spine.

Biting my lip on a smile, I squirm against him. "Nope. Sleeping."

"I don't think you are," he chuckles. His lips find my shoulder. "I think you're very much awake."

"Pretty sure I'm not." My giggle makes a liar of me.

"Oh, really." There's a challenge in his voice; I'm already squirming inside.

His fingertips crawl up my arm again, but instead of trailing back down my spine, he changes his route, creeping them over my shoulder and barely grazing my breast as they complete their circuit. I can feel his smile against my spine as I gasp.

His fingers continue to tease, moving in random patterns—over my nipple, across my waist, circling a hipbone, tracing up my neck. I'm a tangle of need when he finally slips his fingers between my legs, crying out as his firm touch sends me spiraling into ecstasy.

Panting, I roll onto my back, waiting for my pulse to slow. Sprawled in the sunshine, my eyes are fixed on the ceiling, not on my empty bed.

"Come on," he murmurs as the curtains dance in the lazy breeze. "Write."

I get up and wash my hands, muttering to myself about bossy characters who think they call the shots. I don't bother to dress—I retrieve my laptop and climb back into bed.

* * *

_Edward awoke to the brush of Isabella's lips against his shoulder._

* * *

He chuckles. "I'm pretty sure_ I_ woke _you_ up."

I roll my eyes, but delete the sentence.

* * *

_Isabella awoke to the brush of Edward's lips against her shoulder, the weight of his arm draped across her waist. Smiling, she covered his hand with hers, silently letting him know she was awake._

* * *

"That's not what –"

"Are you going to keep interrupting me? I'm trying to make it romantic."

"Fine."

* * *

_Isabella awoke to the brush of Edward's lips against her shoulder, the weight of his arm draped across her waist. Smiling, she covered his hand with hers, squeezing his fingers, silently letting him know she was awake. She felt his answering smile stretching his lips where they were pressed against her skin._

_She lifted her arm, reaching behind her to run her fingers up the back of his neck and into his hair. Edward exhaled deeply as she arched against him, and his fingers danced hesitantly from her hip, up her ribs to cup her breast. _

_Taking her soft moan as encouragement, his fingers stroked slow circles across her chest, his thumbs brushing against her nipples and feeling them tightening as her body reacted to his touch._

_He continued to tease her softly as she rocked back against him, drawing a groan from his lips as her backside rubbed against the towel secured around his hips from his late night shower._

_As intimate as the moment was, cloaked in the stillness of the morning, Isabella began to squirm, wriggling around until she rolled over to find the eye contact she was craving._

_Edward tucked a mess of untamed curls behind her ear and held her gaze for a moment, smiling at her pillow-creased cheeks and drowsy eyes._

_Their lips met, the kiss building in intensity, a tide rising. _

_As Isabella kicked the sheets away, he untangled himself from the towel, shaking his head at her puzzled look. His hands found the waistband of her skirt, and eased it slowly off her hips. She took over, kicking the skirt and her underwear off and into the pile of fabric gathering at the foot of the bed. _

_Positioning himself over her, Edward groaned as their bodies lined up, completely exposed to each other for the first time._

"_Do I ...?" He paused, his eyes flicking towards her nightstand._

_She shook her head. "I'm on the pill … and clean."_

"_Me, too." He chuckled. "Well, I'm not on the pill but …" _

_She silenced him with a kiss, then smiled up at him, her dark eyes sparkling with trust and that new something he wasn't ready to name._

_Edward held her gaze as he found his way inside her, sinking so deep and feeling his heart come adrift from its mooring place in his chest. _

"_Isabella." His voice was laced with wonder as he pulled back and pressed forward again._

_Their movements were unhurried, each meeting of their hips causing breaths to hitch, and quiet sighs and moans to spill into the still air. _

_They pulled each other softly to the edge, shaking in each other's arms as they were carried away._

_As he felt himself settle back into his body, Edward's eyes found Isabella's, searching them—wanting, needing to know if she felt as entirely untethered as he did. The strange feeling that was coursing through him—again—couldn't be entirely attributed to his orgasm—again._

_Her dark eyes were wide as her hand reached up, her finger stroking his cheekbone. Her lips unsmiling, yet there was such a tenderness in her regard that he felt immediately reassured. Whatever this was, she was feeling it every bit as deeply._

* * *

"_There's a little girl in 14 who has some pretty severe injuries," Garrett continued. _

_Edward had already been walked through the official handoff, but he'd asked Garrett to bring him up to speed on anything else he had been concerned about during his shift._

"_She was in a car accident with her parents. Her father was mostly uninjured but they're not sure her Mom is going to make it—she's still in the ICU."_

_Edward nodded, even as his heart squeezed painfully._

"_The kid in 3 should be going home in the morning."_

"_Benjamin? Viral meningitis?"_

"_Yeah."_

_Edward smiled. "Awesome."_

_Garrett nodded, smiling and squeezing his friend's shoulder. "Yep. It was touch and go for a while there."_

"_Totally."_

"_All right man, I'm gonna head. I need some sleep." _

"_Yeah. I'll catch ya soon."_

_Garrett took a few steps then doubled back, a smirk twitching across his thin lips. "Nice try. Isabella. Spill."_

_Edward rolled his eyes as his fist connected with Garrett's shoulder, but he couldn't stop the smile from dawning on his lips. _

"_Ha! Look at you blush!" _

_Garrett danced away from a second punch as Edward shook his head, feeling his cheeks flushing hotter._

_Garrett's smile slipped a little. "Hey, listen. You don't have to tell me, you know? As long as you're happy. S'all I care about."_

_The truth was, Edward _wanted_ to share the details of the last few days—well, some of them, anyway. It had been difficult for him to peel himself away from Isabella this morning—returning to work after the four days he'd spent lost in that bubble of dark eyes and soft kisses felt slightly uncomfortable. Reality had somehow realigned in those few days, and he had felt a little bereft that evening as he pulled on his scrubs and checked his pockets for all the things he would need for his shift._

"_She's amazing," he said, smiling as Garrett's eyes widened. "I pretty much spent all of the last few days with her."_

"_Yeah?"_

"_Yeah. I don't know, man. It was like, _hard_ to leave her this morning … but I had all this shit to do before I started because I've barely been home in the last few days." He shook his head._

"_This morning? Dude," Garrett's voice lowered, "you're already sleeping with her?"_

_Edward scowled at him—though he knew the answer was obvious in the flush creeping up his neck, he hated the idea that his friend would think his feelings for Isabella were that … simple._

"_I mean, seriously? Edward, you've known her for like –"_

"_Shut up." The tone in his voice brooked no argument, and Garrett nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets._

"_Sorry. That was outta line."_

_Edward's nod was curt. "Yeah. It was."_

"_You, uh, you really like her, huh?"_

_His smile was answer enough. "She's … she's like no one I've ever met. I mean, I can't explain it. I don't know the words to use … Maybe she would, though."_

_Garrett tilted his head, frowning. "Why –"_

"_She's a writer. She's probably good at putting this stuff into words, but I'm not. I just … like yeah, I know it looks like things are moving ridiculously quickly, but it doesn't feel too quick. It feels right. Like … like I've been waiting for this—for her, and the pieces are just falling into place."_

_The ding and flash of a call button down the corridor had Edward's attention immediately. "I gotta …"_

"_Yeah. Go. We'll catch up later."_

"_Yep. See ya."_

* * *

"Here's your coffee, miss."

The waiter sets a french press and an empty coffee cup on the table, and I smile in thanks, my fingers picking at the paint peeling off the worn wood.

The sun is beating down against my back, drawing perspiration to the surface. I don't mind, though, because the sun's heat brings with it Edward's warmth. He is always with me in the sunshine. I imagine him sitting beside me, his hand resting on my knee, his feet bumping mine under the table as he uncrosses his ankles and stretches his long legs.

We don't need to talk constantly. We can enjoy each other's company in easy-silence.

I imagine his head tipped back, my eyes sweeping down his throat, watching the muscles and tendons move as he drinks from a bottle of water. I imagine he sets it back on the table and catches me staring—it makes one corner of his mouth lift in a smirk. He likes that I can't keep my eyes off him.

The hot wind becomes his breath, whispering, his lips at my ear as he leans close. "Stop looking at me like that. It makes me want to drag you home to bed."

"Hardly a discouragement." I lick my lips, imagining that my breath would falter as Edward's gaze becomes intense, fierce.

He shakes his head, shifting in his seat. I smile as I press down the filter, and fill my cup with coffee.

I'm pulling some cash from my wallet, eager to head back home, when I glimpse a flash of sunlight on dirty blond hair.

Across the street, I spot a familiar head of surf-tangled curls. It's the first time I've seen Jasper since he moved out. And then another pedestrian steps to the side, and the picture changes, and the world shifts. Understanding falls into place slowly, but when it settles, it comes with something like acceptance—like maybe I've always known this after all.

Tucked under Jasper's arm, her fingers hooked in the waistband of his board shorts, is Alice. She's barefoot, like him, her free hand shielding her eyes from the glare as she surveys the street.

I search my feelings carefully, looking for jealousy and hurt, but they're simply not there—I don't think. I watch his lips fall to her forehead, watch them laugh and talk. I watch them until Alice extricates herself from his embrace and darts into the little vintage clothing boutique, blowing him a kiss from the doorway.

I even smile as I watch Jasper shake his head, flip his sunglasses up like a makeshift headband, and duck into the surf shop a few doors down.

I lean back in my chair, crossing my ankles. My fingers tap against the table for a few moments, beating an indecisive rhythm. With a deep breath trapped in my lungs, I stand up, grab my bag, slide my sunglasses back on and cross the street.

There's a pretty mint-green dress that catches my eye, hanging in the window of the store. I'm holding it in front of my reflection when I hear her voice.

"You have to get that, Bea."

I smile. "Hey, Alice."

"I love that color on you." She grabs the tag and checks the size. "It should fit you. C'mon."

I let her push me into the change room.

"Ha! I knew it would look great on you," she says, when I pull back the curtain.

"Thanks."

I twirl around, checking my reflection in the mirror. _Edward would like it_, I think. I shake my head at my own ridiculousness, but I can't stop the smile that's tugging at the corners of my lips.

"Looks nice, Bea."

Jasper's voice startles me, familiar yet strange, like a song I've forgotten the words to. I turn away from the mirror, biting my lip as I meet his eyes. There's a hesitance in his blue gaze that disarms me. It's so bizarre to see him looking nervous.

"Thanks, J.J."

"She should totally get it. Right, babe?" Alice is apparently oblivious to the awkwardness stretching between Jasper and me.

Or maybe she chooses to ignore it, pretending she's unaware of the weirdness—so pervasive I can almost taste it—as she babbles on about how much the color suits me and how jealous she is that I can wear pretty dresses and look so feminine and _blah blah blah_.

As she prattles on, her arm slides around Jasper's waist, seemingly unaware of the stiffness in his frame as he looks at me, and then back down at her.

_Or maybe she just doesn't care_, I think.

"Yeah, I think I'm going to get it," I say, mostly just to cut across Alice's chatter.

Behind the curtain, I slip back into my own dress. I blow out a deep breath before I step back out into the shop.

I'm not surprised to see Jasper seems to have made his escape. I am, however, completely perplexed that Alice is still here.

"So, Bea …" I can hear her questions lacing her tone.

"Mmm."

"Who are you going to wear this dress for?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I saw your smile. It was that smile that says, 'I know who I'm going to wear this for and I know he's going to like it.' I want details, girl—oh! Eric's been asking about you—I told him to call you again. He did, right? Tell me he did and you're going out with him."

I shake my head; my eyeballs almost hurt as I restrain them from rolling heavenward. "No. Definitely not. I mean—I ran into him on the beach and I said we should all catch up before you move for school, but no, I'm not interested in him like that."

"So it's the other guy? Jake?"

"Jared. Jake's my editor, remember?"

"Oh, Bea!" She claps her hands and I have to grab her elbow to make her stop.

"No. I'm not dating Jared, either. I'm not seeing anyone."

"Oh."

"So, uh, how long have you and Jasper been …" I trail off, uncertain.

Alice beams, like she's been waiting for me to ask, like she can't wait to gush about how wonderful he is and how happy they are. "About three months, I think. We started hanging out when he moved back into town, and yeah, it just sort of happened. Oh, my gosh, Bea. He's just so …"

I tune her out as I hand the dress to the sales assistant, picking up a pair of wrought silver earrings from the stand by the counter and putting them with the dress. Alice prattles on while I grab a few chunky bangles and try on a pair of sunglasses.

The sales girl nods her approval, and I add them to the pile of pretties she's ringing up for me. I hand her my credit card, still trying hard not to listen to Alice as she continues to extol my ex-boyfriend's virtues.

Shouldn't she be a little more subdued about this? Shouldn't a friend be concerned about my feelings? Isn't there like, some sort of girlfriend code that requires her to make sure I'm cool with all this?

"Have a nice day," says the girl behind the glass counter, handing me the canvas bag she's tucked my purchases into.

"Thanks. You, too."

As we step back out onto the sunshine-drenched sidewalk, I slip my new sunglasses on, throwing my old ones into my bag. "Well, it was good to see you, Alice."

"Yeah, totally. We should catch up –"

"Bea?" Jasper interrupts whatever plans Alice was set on making. "Allie, I just … Can you go grab us some coffees?" He nods towards the café I had breakfast in. "I just wanna have a quick word with Bella."

"Sure, sure. Bye, Bea!" She kisses his cheek, waves to me, and skips across the road.

Jasper chews on his lip for a minute. "Listen, Bella …" He sighs, his hand combing roughly through his salt-stiff hair.

"J.J., it's fine."

"I just … I should have called you or something—so you didn't find out like this."

"You think?"

He says nothing, squinting at his bare feet as they shuffle on the sun-scorched pavement. Looking at his familiar-but-not toes makes my irritation pulse hot in my veins.

"It just—I mean, I'm happy for you guys, really. Whatever." I shake my head. "It's not like I've been pining away for you. But a heads up would have been nice."

He nods and I let out a deep breath. "I mean—_fuck_. I just had to listen to ten minutes of non-stop 'Three hundred and seventy-eight things I love about Jasper.' And, dude, I'm sorry, but that's just weird. Regardless of how 'over' everything I am—that's not cool. I'm pretty sure there's an unwritten girl-code law that completely forbids it, actually."

He looks up, his cheeks puffing out as he blows out a breath. "I'm really sorry, Bea. I should have let you know. Especially after …" He bites his lip and looks away.

"After the fact that you used to run off to her to complain about me, but were so adamant 'nothing' had ever happened?"

He nods, his lips pressed thin.

I push my hair from my face; the curls at my temples are damp with the sweat that's beading under the sun's harsh heat. "You know what, J.J? Whatever. It's done. Yeah, I would have preferred to hear about this without having to see Alice's eyes shining their puffy love hearts, but it's too late. I don't care, really."

"Bea –"

"No, really. It's fine."

"Fine." His head jerks, half a nod, like he doesn't quite believe me. "You sure?"

"Yep."

"Right. So, um … what about you—are you, uh …" He waves his hand absently.

"Am I seeing anyone?"

"Yeah."

I roll my eyes behind their shades. "No." It's true. I don't _see_ him.

"Okay. Well, uh …"

"Yeah." I shoulder my bag. "I'll see you guys later."

Edward walks home beside me—the scorching sun is the heat of his arm thrown across my shoulders, the wind is him whispering sweet words into my ear.

* * *

It's not until I unlock my front door and throw my keys on the table by the door half an hour later that reality crashes down on me, bowing my shoulders and buckling my knees.

_He's not real._

Alice and Jasper—I'm glad they found each other, and I wish them happiness together.

But they're together. They have each other. Really, truly.

When they hold each other, their embrace is real—warm arms and hearts beating and and skin and sweat … and fucking body odor.

Real. Tangible.

I want that.

Not with Jasper. I want that with Edward, and I can't, won't ever, have that.

I'm just playing games. While they are in each other's arms, I'm like the child in the playground who has surrounded herself with imaginary friends because none of the other kids will talk to her.

The walls of the house are closing in on me, the wood floors seeming to tilt up to meet me. I stumble, but keep walking—straight through the kitchen and out onto the verandah into the bright sunshine.

Into his arms, intangible though they are.

I hear his voice so clearly that it makes my hands shake. The breeze is his fingers, stroking my hair; it's his arms, wrapping around me.

"What is it, pretty girl? What's upset you?"

I want to stamp my feet and scream at him, but I don't. "This isn't real." I whisper the words out loud, tasting their bitterness. "You don't love me. You don't exist. You can't love, because you aren't real. I'm alone. Completely."

"Isabella?" Another gust of wind, he tightens his embrace. "Do you_ feel_ loved?"

"What does it matter? We both know that what I feel has no correlation with what is real."

"Tell me, though. Do you feel loved?"

"Yes." The word is as soft as a breath, but he hears. "Yes, I do."

"Then, it's real. Do you _feel_ like you're alone? Are you lonely?"

Do I feel lonely? Even with reality screaming at me, I don't. I think of the words I wrote nearly a year ago, of bone-deep loneliness, and a longing to be truly known.

"No," I shake my head, my eyes on the ground. "No, I'm not lonely. Not when you're here."

There's a part of me that knows it's not that simple, but for now, I ignore it. I let the warm sun and the gentle breeze soothe me. I let the wind drying the tears on my face be his thumbs sweeping them away.

For now, I let myself feel cared for, cherished—loved.

* * *

_Given that he had another three weeks of night shifts ahead of him, Edward had expected it would be difficult to find time to spend with Isabella after his extended weekend—something that had disappointed him to no end._

_His fears had proven unfounded, however, as her flexible schedule meant she was able to meet him for coffee after work, or have a late dinner before he started, and even cheerfully offered to stay awake all night over his days off so he could maintain his sleep patterns._

_Although Edward initially resisted, feeling it was an unreasonable thing to ask of her, she had set his mind at ease, pointing out that she frequently ended up writing through the night and into the early hours of the morning anyway. _

_She liked to write in the dark, she told him—there was something about the cover of darkness that allowed her creativity to run free, unfettered by the judgment that comes in the daylight hours._

"_As in, you write dirty, sexy stuff at night?" he teased, his finger finding her ribs. _

_They were relaxing on his tiny balcony, their bellies full of bacon and eggs, chorizo sausages and corn fritters, the dirty plates stacked and forgotten on the small wrought iron table. Having breakfast-for-dinner together before he started his shift tonight had been Isabella's idea, though he had insisted it was his turn to cook. _

_Isabella smirked, taking another sip of her wine. "Maybe." She giggled at the flush of pink on Edward's cheeks, visible even in the moonlight. "No, mostly, I mean—I don't know, in the daytime, sometimes there's more clarity, it's true, but also, well, … It's easier to entertain flights of fancy and whimsical wanderings in the darkness. It's easier to suspend disbelief."_

_Edward considered it a moment. "I guess that makes sense. I mean, at night, I spend a whole lot of time checking under beds for monsters and stuff—for kids who would scoff at the very idea by day."_

"_You chase away monsters?"_

_In Isabella's mind, she pictured herself, hand to brow, swooning into his strong arms. She shook her head of the image, focusing back on Edward as he swallowed a mouthful of coffee._

"_Yeah," he said, setting the mug back on the table with a clink. "Hospital beds are up pretty high—lots of room, you see, for the monsters and gremlins and whatnot to hide under."_

"_Oh, please. Don't talk about gremlins." She shuddered. "My godfather let me watch that film when I was small and I had nightmares for years."_

"_Ah, well …" Edward pulled her out of her chair and into his lap. "It's lucky, then—" He murmured, pushing her hair off her neck "—that I have years of experience in the searching out and dispatching of gremlins. I'll keep you safe."_

_He kissed her neck as she giggled. "Very lucky," she agreed._

* * *

_The unusual hours they kept also meant they were able to go on some rather unusual—and memorable—dates as their relationship continued to bloom._

"_You had a picnic on the cliffs at three o'clock in the morning?" His mother shook her head as she set a mug of coffee in front of him. "Edward, is that safe? And, goodness, she should be tucked up in her bed at that time. You can't –"_

"_It's fine, Mom. It was actually her idea." He reassured her. "She's pretty nocturnal. It's kind of fun, you know? We've been going out in the middle of the night on most my nights off. It's … well, it's kinda special, having all these unique experiences. It's like, I don't know, like, we're the only people out, so it's almost as if we're the only people that exist in those moments."_

_She smiled, reaching for his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. "Well, as long as she's okay with it. Just—don't do anything too crazy."_

_Edward blushed, turning his head away. Images of Isabella's skin naked and dripping, tinged a silvery-blue in the moonlight flicked through his memory. Midnight swimming had been his idea, but it was Isabella who had simply stripped off her dress and panties and run down the stairs to the beach without putting on her swimsuit. _

_Esme shook her head. "I don't want to know, do I?" _

_Edward chuckled and changed the subject. _

"_I told you she's a writer, didn't I?" He caught a yawn in the crook of his elbow, shaking his head. It had been a long night, but his mother had asked him to come around for coffee after his shift, and after her recent health scare, he was unwilling to turn her down._

"_Yes!" His mother smiled. "I went and bought one of her novels after you told me."_

"_Really?" Edward scratched his top lip, feeling a little foolish that it hadn't occurred to him to read one of her novels. "And? Did you like it?"_

"_It's not something I'd usually read," his mother conceded. "It is quite a lovely story, though. I'm only halfway through, but it's beautifully written."_

_Edward's smile was broad with secondhand pride. "I think she's got another one coming out in the next few months."_

"_Oh?"_

"_Mmm, I think it's about mermaids." _Appropriate,_ he decided, thinking of her delight as she floated in the inky blue ocean, her eyes on the stars that twinkled above them. _

"_Interesting."_

_His teeth scraped across his lip as he hesitated. "I'd, uh, like you to meet her soon, Mom."_

"_Whenever you're both ready—I'd love to meet her, too." _

_On his way home—after a making a quick stop at a bookstore—he dialed Isabella's number._

"_Mmmm."_

_Edward chuckled at the sleepy voice on the other end of the phone. "Sorry, pretty girl. I shouldn't have called so late."_

_Isabella's chuckle was raspy with sleep. "It's almost noon, Edward. I don't think that can ever be considered late—or early, actually."_

"_Were you up late?"_

"_Yeah, I think I went to bed around five o'clock."_

"_Did you write some good words?"_

_She yawned, and Edward imagined her stretching, the light dancing on her skin. "Yeah, lots of them."_

"_Will you read some to me?"_

"_Mm, later, maybe."_

_He smiled, pleased she hadn't said no. "Okay, well, I'm almost home. But I was wondering, do you want to have dinner tonight?"_

"_Yeah, that'd be lovely."_

"_Great. Well, I'll call you when I wake up, but probably around eight o'clock? Is that too late for you?"_

"_Pffft."_

_Edward chuckled. "All right. I'll call you later."_

"_Mmmkay. Night night."_

"_Goodnight."_

* * *

_Isabella was just checking her makeup when she heard the rap rap rap of Edward's knuckles on her front door._

_Smiling at her reflection, she smoothed her hands over the emerald green satin, double-checking her breasts were well and truly secure beneath the sweetheart neckline._

_Her stomach started in on its usual acrobatic maneuvers as she went to answer the front door. _

"_I've changed my mind," Edward said, as soon as the door opened. "Let's just stay here."_

_She giggled, shaking her head. _

"_You laugh like you think I'm joking." Edward's eyebrows lifted, his expression becoming almost predatory as his eyes swept up and down her figure._

_She shivered, his gaze was so intense she could almost feel it on her skin._

"_You look so beautiful," he said, his voice softening. _

"_Thank you." _

_His arm snaked around her waist, pulling her close and kissing her deeply, making it clear to her just how tempted he was to cancel their reservation and drag her back to bed. With a groan, he released her. _

_Isabella swayed a little in her sexy black heels. "Uh, wow. Hi, to you, too."_

"_Shall we?" He offered her his arm, making her giggle._

"_Let's."_

_They flirted and laughed their way through dinner, Isabella's cheeks growing as pink as the Alicante Bouchet she was drinking—alone, given that Edward was due to start his shift in just a few hours._

_As the time wore on, the subtle nudges of ankles and brushes of fingers became more deliberate and bold, as they sought to tease each other—pushing each other's limits and delighting in watching the other's breathing falter. It was a foolish game, perhaps, working each other up—they would have no chance to make good on their unspoken promises until Edward returned from work the next morning. _

_And yet, it was addictive, the thrill of eliciting each blush, each gasp, each jaw-clench and bitten-back groan. Leaning to reach the pepper, Isabella pushed her breasts against Edward's shoulder and squeezed his knee with her free hand. As she spooned dessert into her mouth, he retaliated, his long fingers dancing up her inner thigh until his knuckles brushed against damp lace._

"_I think it's time to go," she murmured. _

"_Give me a minute," Edward pleaded, screwing his eyes shut, his lips vibrating as he muttered to himself._

_Isabella checked her watch—a minute was really all they could spare, he was due at work in half an hour._

_The car ride home was quiet, tense—like the air between them had replaced with volatiles that would ignite with the strike of a match._

_Not bothering to switch on the lights, Edward had Isabella pressed against the wall as soon as they stepped inside her front door. His mouth was hard against hers, his fingers bunching the satin of her dress, shimmying it up her thighs. _

"_Hold this," he told her, then kissed her hard._

_Stunned, she gathered the fabric up around her waist with one hand as Edward sank to his knees, sliding her panties down her legs. _

_He helped her step one foot out of the lace, leaving it looped around her other ankle, before lifting her leg over his shoulder. He paused, meeting her eyes as she looked down at him, her lips parted as she gasped for air._

_As his lips and tongue met her slick skin, Isabella's free hand found his shoulder, squeezing the muscles there almost painfully as she anchored herself against the storm building low in her belly. _

"_Oh. Fuck, Edward!" _

_Edward groaned against her as the strangled curse flew from her lips, the vibrations only serving to push her closer to the brink. She was teetering on the edge, resisting the fall, when his fingers joined his mouth and sent her headlong into her climax._

_As she sagged, boneless, against the wall, Edward clambered to his feet, kissed her once more and ducked out the front door with a quiet, "I'll be back about eleven o'clock tomorrow morning."_

_Isabella blinked at the door he'd just disappeared through, her eyelids heavy, her limbs still tingling, her lips saturated with the taste of his kisses. _

"_Fucking hell," she muttered as her knees gave out and she sank to the floor, her bare backside against the wood floor. _

_She tipped her head back against the wall, her eyes on the unlit ceiling, and giggled suddenly. _Poor Edward,_ she thought. _How on earth is he going to last the night with no relief?

* * *

Leaning back from my laptop, the sun burning my skin takes me by surprise. Light streams through the open window, casting a white glow across the room and my bare arms.

I shake my head, blinking against the morning. _It should be dark._

My head falls into my hands as I watch the brightness slide slowly across my desk as the sun creeps its way towards its highest point.

"What am I doing?" I say the words out loud, tasting them—bitter and sweet.

Two images—felt more than seen—flicker through my mind.

Myself—curled up in the darkness, alone but for my pleading whimpers, my fingers between my legs.

Edward and Isabella—curled into each other as they sleep, contentment, almost a tangible presence, hovers over them.

I have a choice.

I can close these documents, walk away from Edward and _live_.

I shake my head as soon as that thought materializes. I'm not ready to let go of him.

I think of Victoria's advice: "finish this story, then see what happens."

If I'm going to keep writing this, I can let it remind me of everything I'm lacking. I can let this serve as a reminder of everything I want and don't have.

Or I can throw myself into it, I can live and breathe it, and I can let myself soak in the love that is swelling like the tide between Edward and Isabella.

* * *

_Edward knocked on Isabella's door twice, but both attempts to draw her attention to his arrival failed. He smiled and shook his head, checking his watch. Ten-thirty. Shielding his tired eyes against the morning sun, he walked around to the back of the house, jogging up the steps onto the verandah. _

_The sound of clattering keys filled the quiet house, and he found Isabella at her breakfast table, focused intently on her laptop, headphones covering her ears. As he watched, she paused, closing her eyes for a beat and swaying slightly, before she nodded to herself and continued typing. _

_The clack and clatter continued for a minute or two, before she sighed heavily and steepled her fingers beneath her chin._

_Recognizing his opportunity, Edward moved behind her, his arms reaching around to find the keyboard. Isabella gasped, but relaxed against him almost immediately, her head tipping back to look at him. _

_Edward didn't look down, focusing, instead, on the screen in front of them._

**Good morning, beautiful**_, he typed. _**How are you?**

_Isabella giggled and pushed his fingers out of the way._

**I'm great. How was work?**

**It was okay. Long. Sleepy now. Have you slept at all?**

**No, I was waiting for you. I missed you.**

_Edward smiled, kissing the top of her head. _**Bed?**

**For sleep or …**

_He groaned. How could she make an ellipsis seem so sexy? _**Both. Always both.**

_Isabella tipped her head back again, looking up at him with dark, wanting eyes. He pressed an upside down kiss to her lips, his body already flooding with arousal and that fluttery thing. As he pulled away, their eyes caught and his breath hitched. _

_Was it too soon? He wasn't sure, but his fingers found the keys again, the air trapped in his lungs as they danced across the keys._

**Isabella?**

**Yes, Edward? **

_She giggled again. She was pulling her headphones from her ears while Edward picked out three words._

**I love you.**

_Isabella blinked at the screen, her smile falling from her lips, as she read the words over and over. Edward watched as her fingers hesitated over the keys, her hands shaking. _

_Tears pricking the corners of her eyes, Isabella took a breath to steady herself and began to type. _

_Edward closed his eyes, afraid to see her response, but when he felt her fingers on the back of his hand, he opened them again, looking at the last line of text that had been added to their little dialogue._

**I love you, too.**

_His heart keeping time with the cursor that winked at the end of her declaration, Edward swallowed hard, feeling as though the joy that was rapidly inflating in his chest might burst from his lungs and out his mouth._

_He bent to lift Isabella out of her chair when she shouted, "Wait!"_

_Worried, he froze. Isabella turned back to the laptop and held down Command and S, smiling as she watched the little blue bar race across the bottom of the document._

"_Couldn__'__t lose it,__"__ she said, her dark eyes shining with tears. _

_She smiled and shook her head, wiping her eyes and blinking hard. She didn't want to cry, but it felt as though the emotion that was coursing through her couldn't be contained inside her, and was seeping out of her however it could._

_Edward nodded, pulling her from the chair and into his embrace. His lips found her forehead. "C'mon," he whispered. _

_Isabella let him lead her into her bedroom, let him peel away her clothes. His green eyes were intense, locked with hers, and it was like he was peeling away her skin and bones and exposing her heart. _

_And as they collapsed in lazy ecstasy, their skin beaded with sweat, Edward pulled Isabella onto his chest. His lips rested against her forehead, his fingers tangling in her hair, his other arm securing her waist. _

_The throb-throb of his heartbeat against her cheek, in her ears, Isabella traced her hands across his chest, her fingertips writing the words before she spoke them._

"_Edward?"_

"_Mmm?"_

"_I love you."_

_He paused, willing his lips out of their smile so he could shape the words. "I love you, too."_

* * *

**A/N: I'm truly sorry if I haven't replied to your review from Chapter 9 yet. I will get to them asap!**

**This chapter (hell, the whole story) would be a big mess without Tam's magic touch. She's the best, and I'm truly thankful for her. (Also, you should absolutely go read her story, _In the Debris_. Now!).**

**Love, Shell x**

* * *

**P.S. Don't forget to go read the entries for the Season of Our Discontent Anonymous Angst Contest!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

* * *

_"Write in recollection and amazement for yourself." __Jack Kerouac_

* * *

The big, black dog comes bounding up to me, his huge paws sending sand flying as he gambols across the beach, his jaw slack, pink-red tongue lolling. I freeze, my eyes squeezing tight, my shoulders curling inwards, as he barks his cheerful "hhooof" at me. I feel his toenails scrabbling at my thighs, hear his heavy pants as he tries to engage me in his game.

"Go away," I whisper. "Go home."

Blindly, I try to push him away. He takes it as my acquiescence to his playfulness and I feel his teeth against my fingers. He's not trying to hurt me, but the feel of his hot, wet mouth makes my knees shake.

"No. Bad dog." There's no authority in my voice, and I can hear the sand being disrupted by his frantic paws as he runs around me, jumping up on me, and woofing his excitement.

A shrill whistle rings in my ears, piercing even over the thudding of my pulse in my ears, and a woman's voice shouts, "Gus! Heel!"

The dog races off with a cheerful bark, and my lungs remember how to pull in the air they're screaming for.

Opening my eyes, I see a tall guy with a shaved head clipping the dog's collar onto a fluoro yellow leash, while the dark-skinned woman at his side shakes her head. I can just hear her rousing on the dog for "scaring the nice lady."

She says something to the guy, pointing across the beach towards the parking lot. He nods before he and the dog start walking in the direction she was indicating, the lead pulled taut as the mutt drags his owner along.

"I'm so sorry. He's a bit excitable—we should have kept him on the leash. I hope he didn't scare you too much."

I shake my head as the young woman walks towards me, her smile apologetic.

"It's okay," I mumble. "I'm just not used to animals."

She rolls her eyes—they're blue, I realize, startling and bright against her dark skin. "Yeah, well that one can be a bit of a handful, even for the most devout animal-lover."

She puffs out an exasperated breath. "He's my boyfriend's dog. Don't tell him, I love the stupid thing, but it's such a pain in my ass sometimes."

I mime zipping my lips and she grins. Her white teeth are slightly crooked—somehow, they only emphasize her stunning beauty.

"I'm Emily," she says, offering me her hand. "Are you local?"

I nod—her fingers are warm and soft in mine.

"Bella. And yeah, I've lived here most of my life." My feet dig into the sand, like I can bury my shyness with my toes. "What about you—are you holidaying, or new in town?"

"We just moved here," she says, her hand absently patting her stomach. "We've spent the last week getting the house set up, though. Can you believe this is the first time we've come down to the beach?"

"But it's been so hot!"

"Ugh. Don't I know it?" She grumbles something under her breath. "But Liam—my boyfriend—wanted to get everything just perfect. I swear, I was gonna just leave him to it after yesterday. It's too frigging hot to be rearranging the furniture forty-seven times—just get it all in and turn the damn air-con on!"

I smile as she shakes her head.

"Do you work locally, Bella? Or do you commute into the city?"

"Oh, uh, I work from home. I'm a writer."

"Really? Cool."

"Uh, how about you?"

"I'm commuting." She sighs. "I work in HR. Well, for another four months I do, then I'm on maternity leave." She pats her belly again. "I can't wait."

"Oh, um, congratulations."

"Thanks." Her blue eyes sparkle as she looks out at the breaking waves. "It was a bit of a shock, but we're pretty excited now."

We stand, watching the whitewash sprawl across the sand, until Emily yelps, "Oh, shit! I totally forgot Liam is waiting for me."

She laughs at herself, smiling at me. "It was nice to meet you, Bella. I should –" She waves towards the parking lot.

"Yeah, of course. Uh, it was nice to meet you, too."

"Hopefully I'll see you around—it'd be nice to hang out. I don't really have any friends here, yet."

My fingers twist together behind my back. "Yeah, I'd like that."

"Great. Well, I'm sure I'll run into you around the place. We, uh, we're planning on having dinner at that little bar. Uh, I don't know what it's called, on Bayside Street."

"Well, you're local now, so you call it Sam's."

"Okay. You're gonna have to explain that to me one time. Anyway, we're having dinner there tomorrow, if you want to join us?"

I hesitate, my teeth scraping my bottom lip. _Oh, what the hell. I need friends—real ones, with like, bodies and stuff._

"Uh, if you're sure?"

"Hell yes, I'm sure. Liam's invited a few of the guys he works with, so it'd be great to have another girl along." Emily's smile is wide. "About seven-thirty, okay?"

"Okay."

She dashes back across the sand, her dark hair whipped around by the sea breeze that's starting to roll in.

I head in the opposite direction, down to the wet sand, and the foamy waves that are spreading across it. I start towards home, walking in ankle deep water, feeling him smiling by my side.

"She seems nice."

I nod. "Yeah, she does."

"You're gonna go, right?"

"I think I will. It'll be nice to hang out with another girl. I mean, I feel weird about seeing Alice now … I guess I'm kind of lonely."

His arm is across my shoulders, his lips against my temple. "You'll have fun."

* * *

I do have fun.

When I walk into Sam's, I find Emily immediately—she's sitting with Liam and a group of other guys, their table laden with bowls of kumera fries and littered with glasses filled with beer of varying shades.

Emily is easy to like. She's friendly and warm, and she seems genuinely interested in making friends here in town. She shines bright in a big group of people—somehow steering the interaction without dominating it. It's fascinating to watch. Reading people's tells seems to be second nature to her, and she skillfully keeps conversation in safe waters, knowing just when to adjust sail to avoid the reefs of touchy subjects, or change tack when someone seems uncomfortable.

"So, you guys moved here for Liam's job?" I ask.

"Nah, we moved 'cause of the peanut." She pats her belly. "We thought it'd be nice to raise kids here, you know? Away from the busyness of the city. We were pretty lucky that Liam got a job so quick, though."

"What are you saying about me?" Liam turns to his girlfriend, his cheeks dimpling as he smiles.

"That you take longer to get ready than I do."

He nods, winking at me, rubbing at his scalp. "It's true, Bella. It's my hair, you see. It takes a lot of work."

I'm laughing when I feel a hand on my shoulder. "Bella?"

I look up, startled, but relax almost immediately. I haven't seen her since I graduated high school, but she still looks exactly the same—from the blonde bob to the ripped jeans and scuffed Docs. "Angela, hi!"

"You remember Ben, right?"

I nod as he smiles.

"Of course. How are you guys?"

"Really good! I was actually going to give you a call soon. I saw your Dad last weekend and he said you were around—we just moved back here a few weeks ago."

"Awesome. Angela, Ben—this is Emily, and Liam."

"Yeah, we've met, actually." Ben tells me as Angela and Emily shake hands. "Well, I've met Liam—we're going to be working together."

"Oh." Angela looks between Liam and Ben. "These are the people we're having dinner with, then?"

Ben chuckles. "Yeah."

Ben seems to know everyone at the table, and he guides Angela around the table, his hand on the small of her back as he makes introductions. I feel a little pang as I watch, even as I imagine Edward's smile, and his whispered, "Later." I push the feeling away and turn my attention back to Emily.

It's a fun night, and by the time we all decide to head home—well after one in the morning—Emily, Angela and I have plans to meet up for coffee soon.

It feels good to be out with a big group of people—especially people who just know me as "Bella," not as "Charlie and Renée's daughter," or "Jasper's ex-girlfriend." It's nice to have friends to just hang out with and laugh and talk shit and just be.

I guess I hadn't realized just how used to being alone I had become.

* * *

_Isabella checked the clock for what felt like the hundredth time. Edward had crawled into her bed—having used the key she'd given him the previous week—sometime around eleven o'clock that morning. He had just embarked on another month of nightshifts, and he was struggling to readjust to the nocturnal lifestyle._

_However, by seven o'clock, Isabella was becoming agitated as she watched the sun sink into the sea._

"_Edward?"_

_Edward shook his head, mumbling a little and burrowing his face closer into her pillow, his slow deep breaths born as much of a desire to fall back into the soothing rhythm of sleep as they were to pull her fragrance from her linen and into his lungs._

"_Edward?" _

_Impatient, she clambered across the bed, perching herself on his lower back._

"_Owwf." Edward wriggled his hips in protest. "Sore."_

"_Oh, sorry." She slid back, until she was seated on his butt, then set her hands on the small of his back and started kneading the tight muscles either side of his spine. "Better?"_

"_Mmm."_

_She tried again, her fingers continuing to push deep circles into his flesh. "Edward?"_

_He sighed, turning his head. He couldn't quite crane his neck to see her, but Isabella could see that his eyes were finally open. "What's up, pretty girl?"_

"_I think we should have a fight."_

_Edward groaned and reached for her pillow, pulling it over his head. Though it was muffled by down and cotton, his answer was firm. "No."_

"_No?"_

"_No."_

"_Edwaaaard." Isabella was aware that her voice had taken on that whiny tone that she would normally despise in herself, but she didn't attempt to clear it. In fact, she hoped that it would provoke him._

"_That's not going to work," was his pillow-smothered response._

_Isabella huffed, bouncing a little where she sat. _

"_That's not going to work, either." He chuckled, flexing the muscles in his ass against her so she was bounced around on her perch. _

_Isabella had to bite her tongue to stop the giggle escaping. She wanted a fight and he was being playful and adorable. Her resolve wouldn't last much longer. _

"_Why don't you want to fight with me? Are you scared?" she taunted. "Aren't you worried you won't like me if we can't agree on something? What if we suck at conflict resolution? We need to practice, Edward."_

_He made no response, but Isabella watched the rise and fall of his back as he heaved a sigh. _

"_We've never had a fight, Edward," she continued, her voice growing soft and serious. "We've been dating for over four months. I don't know, that doesn't seem healthy to me. I'm just worried. I want to know we can fight and make up. That we_ can_ disagree."_

_Edward pushed to his hands and knees in one swift motion, sending Isabella tumbling off him with a shriek of surprise. He moved quickly, until he hovered over her, his eyes fierce as they locked with hers. _

_Isabella's heart was thudding against her throat, surprise and arousal warring with concern as his body caged her, contained her._

"_Isabella." His voice was dark, drawing shivers from her like a finger tracing too gently down her spine. "Do you trust me?"_

"_Of course." The words were more gasped than spoken._

"_Do you think I'm intelligent, Isabella?" _

_His eyes captured hers, she couldn't look away. "You know you are. I know … you are."_

"_And do you think I have a low opinion of you, pretty girl?"_

_Isabella frowned. "No, not –"_

_His head dropped lower, his lips swept across her forehead before he pulled away, leaving her stuttering and wide-eyed._

"_Do you not trust me, then, to speak my mind? To be honest with you? Do you really think that I think so little of you that I wouldn't argue with you—should I feel the need to? Do you think I consider you a spoiled princess who can't separate a difference of opinion from how she feels about a person? Do you think I believe you're not in this every bit as whole-heatedly as I am—that you'd run if we couldn't agree on some point?"_

"_Uh." Coherency was rapidly seeping from Isabella's mind._

_Edward chuckled low in his throat, shaking his head as he looked down at the girl squirming beneath him, pinned by his gaze as much as she was by his body._

"_If I need to fight with you, Isabella, I will. If I disagree with you, I will tell you. And I know you would do me the same courtesy. I'm sure that neither of us has any appreciation for lip service."_

_Isabella's mind ran south with his words, and she considered telling him that actually, she was really rather fond of being paid lip service to. She would have, too, were she able to remember how to force sound to exit her mouth._

"_We will fight, Isabella. It's inevitable. And when we do, we'll do it well. You'll scream at me, and I'll go silent and cold, and then we'll hear each other out and we'll compromise."_

"_Maybe I'll be the silent, cold one." _

_He shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Fine. You can be the silent, cold one, too. But I'm not going to shout at you, sorry."_

_He leaned lower and traced his lips from beneath her ear to her collarbone, then pulled back again. The blaze in his eyes gentled. "Is everything okay?"_

_Isabella smiled, her fingers threading their way through his dark hair. "Yeah. Sorry, I guess I was just being silly. I guess—" she sighed, "—I just … I don't know, I woke up, and I started freaking out that this was too good be true. That you're too perfect to be real. That we've had it too good, too easy."_

_His lips found her forehead, her eyelids, her nose. "I'm very real, Isabella, though I'm by no means perfect. And sometimes I wonder the same. To me, _you_ seem too good to be true."_

"_For now," she said, tasting the bitterness in her words. "I'm sure I'll annoy you soon enough. I'll forget you asked me to do something, or I'll not hear you ask me a question, or I'll be late to meet you because I got lost writing …" _

_Edward sighed, brushing her hair off her forehead. "You know what? There will most likely be times I'll be too busy watching football to hear you ask me a question—or I won't want to go out 'cause there's a game on. And I'll probably forget to cut my toenails, and they'll stab you in the shins while you're asleep. And sometimes I'll have to work late when there's an emergency, and it will screw up our plans—and I won't even be able to call you to let you know why I'm running late."_

"_That's okay—we'll work it out."_

_Edward's brow creased as his eyebrows lifted. He said nothing, waiting for her to understand._

"_Oh."_

"_Exactly. Sweetheart, that's what you do in a relationship. You compromise—you work it out. You overlook some things, and you try to change others. You annoy each other and then you apologize, and you figure out how to make it work better next time."_

"_I don't know—the toenails might be a deal breaker." She giggled._

"_Good to know. I'll get start making appointments for a manicure."_

"_A pedicure."_

"_Huh?"_

"_When it's your feet, they call it a pedicure. Mani—hand, pedi—foot. You're a nurse, you should know these root words."_

"_Anyway –" his mood shifted again, his eyes roving across her naked flesh, as though he had only just realized her breasts were bare, and mere centimeters from his lips "– I'm given to understand that there is one benefit to these fights you're so eager to instigate."_

"_Yeah?" Isabella could feel her chest rising and falling more quickly. _

"_Mmm." His nose traced down her neck, between her breasts to her belly. His breath was hot against her abdomen as he spoke. "I'm lead to believe make-up sex is quite coveted."_

_Isabella swallowed hard. "Oh."_

"_Oh, indeed." His voice was against her thigh, and she reflexively squeezed the muscles, trapping his head as he laughed dark, his warm breath caressing her dampened skin._

_Hands on her knees, Edward broke her hold on him, pushing her legs apart, his eyes green fire as he watched her fingers clutching at the sheet, her back arching, her body silently begging for his touch._

_Edward rocked back on his knees, and climbed off the bed. Isabella's eyes opened wide, confusion and shock written in their depths._

"_What –" She fell silent as he shook his head._

_He pulled her out of bed, smiling as she staggered, punch-drunk._

_Isabella was confused but compliant as he lead her into the adjoining bathroom, as he placed her hands on the ceramic countertop and tapped her ankle with his foot, urging her to open her legs. She obediently arched when he pushed on the small of her back, watching the mirror with heavy eyes, as he finger-walked his hands up her arms, as he smoothed his palms over the slight curve of her belly, as he cupped her breasts. _

_When his long fingers found her nipples, tugging and twisting, her eyes fluttered shut._

"_No. Watch. You're so fucking beautiful." _

_It was an effort, but she forced her lids open, watching intently as he cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing across her nipples. Her eyes met his in the mirror, held captive as his knees bent and she felt him there, poised to enter her._

_And then he was inside her, his fingers digging into her hips as he thrust into her, over and over. He watched her watch the way their bodies moved together, the way the blood rushed under their skin, the way lips parted and breasts bounced and fingers flexed and jaws clenched. _

_And when her orgasm crested over her, Edward watched her eyes close tight and her jaw drop and her body shake until he, too, had to squeeze his eyes shut as heat rushed through him and every muscle in his body tensed and then relaxed._

_Boneless and heavy-limbed, his thigh muscles screaming their protests, Edward released Isabella and staggered backwards, his hands finding the wall and its unmoving support. She looked no less shell-shocked—her locked elbows the only thing that stopped her from collapsing across the bathroom counter._

_Their gasping breaths filled the small room, fast and shallow, but slowing and deepening as their bodies found their equilibrium once again._

_Wordlessly, Isabella pushed away from the counter, grimacing a little as she stepped into the shower and spun the taps. _

"_Are you okay?" Edward asked as he stepped in behind her, concern adding a slight waver to his voice._

_She turned, her lips twitching with a lazy smile as the hot water beat down on hard-working muscles. "Perfect."_

* * *

"Shit, shit, shit … Hello?" I'm panting by the time I scoop my phone up.

"Hey, Bea."

"Jake, hi."

"Running for the phone, or am I interrupting something?"

I choke-cough. "Fuck, no. You think I'd stop to answer the phone if I was … otherwise engaged?"

"Uh, yeah. Good point. Anyway, I've gone over everything again ..."

I can tell by his pause—he's going to suggest a revision I'm not going to like. "And?"

He sighs, his breath rattling against the plastic of the phone he's probably got tucked against his shoulder.

"Are you sure you don't want things to end more neatly? I, uh, well, I get what you're trying to do, okay? But I'm—we're –" _he means Maria_ "– just worried it's a little … uh, well, a little subversive. Or more to the point, that it's going to put moms off buying it for their daughters."

I can feel my nails cutting into the palm of my free hand, and I force my fingers to stretch open, uncurling my fist.

"Subversive." I say the word, tasting it. I kind of like it—it's a little sweet, a little spicy.

"She's worried that moms will read it as you telling their daughters that they don't have to respect their parents—that you're kinda … encouraging disobedience, or at least suggesting that parental figures are sort of ridiculous."

_Seriously? Did she even read the same fucking words I wrote?_ "Jake –"

"I know. And look, Bea. I'm with you on this, okay? I think you do it well. Tallulah agonizes over the decision—she does listen to her mom, she weighs up her advice, but she ultimately makes the decision she has to. I think anyone who actually reads the book closely will see this—that it's a young woman making a balanced, informed decision. She doesn't just rush into it—she doesn't do it impulsively, or just to get the boy. I know I questioned it at first, but I think you're right in ending it this way. However, I was asked to check with you again—see if you could be persuaded to consider revising it a little."

"Okay. Well, you've checked."

He laughs. "I guess so. All right, Bea. I've got your back on this."

"Thanks, Jake."

"Any time. Okay. Well, I'm gonna send you some cover art ideas, and then I think, once you're happy with that, we're good to go."

The tension in my chest starts to dissolve. "Okay. Great."

"All right. I'll talk to you soon, Bea. Sorry to do this to you—I know it can't be fun, being challenged on this again."

I shrug, even though he can't see me. "It's okay. I get it." I sigh. "I'll talk to you later."

"Bye, Bea."

I throw my phone back on the kitchen bench and link my hands behind my head, arching my back and shifting my weight as I stare out the window.

I close my eyes and surprise myself when the giggles burst up my throat and seem to bounce around the room.

"Subversive. Huh." I shake my head.

"Are you causing trouble, pretty girl?"

"Yep. I'm being subversive."

His laugh is a hot breeze against my neck. "I like the sound of that."

"I'm kind of proud of it." I smirk. "It feels like I must be doing something right. Pushing the envelope or whatever."

"I'd like to subvert you."

I snicker, but I'm already walking towards my bedroom, shedding my tank top and skirt as I walk.

I reach across my bed, fumbling in the drawer for a moment—and then he's above me, his lips dancing across my overheated skin, sliding inside me, pushing me towards release.

I tumble quickly, but he isn't satisfied. He demands more and more, hauling me back up the cliff face—only to hurl me off it again, his name ripping from my throat as I freefall.

My skin is damp with sweat as my lungs heave, and I throw an arm across my eyes.

I drift in and out of sleep, secure in his arms, his breath in my hair, his warmth against my side.

* * *

"_Esme, how many more potatoes should I do?" _

_Esme looked over Isabella's shoulder, nodding to herself as she counted. "Maybe one more, dear."_

"_Okay."_

"_And then, if you could just dice them into cubes, oh, just a bit smaller than half an inch, I guess."_

_Isabella nodded. "Sure."_

_Conversation flowed easy between the two women, meandering like a river around various landmarks: Isabella's family and upbringing, her novels, stories of Edward's childhood, and complaints about the bitingly cold breezes that had swept down the coast earlier in the week._

"_I must admit –" Esme continued, her green eyes fixed on her knife as it moved quickly against the board, filling the kitchen with the pungent smell of garlic and onions "– I did try to persuade him to do medicine at first. He's certainly bright enough, and of course, they're paid so much more. But he was absolutely set on nursing, and my son is nothing if not stubborn."_

_She scraped her knife across the board as she spoke, the garlic and onions hitting the hot oil and immediately releasing another wave of aroma across the kitchen. _

"_I'm glad—now—that he didn't listen to me."_

"_He does love it," Isabella agreed. She added the diced potatoes into the pan, stirring them briefly. "I'd love to see him in action. You know, see him interacting with the kids and stuff."_

_Blushing a little at her admission, she bumped the kitchen tap with the back of her wrist, quickly scrubbing the milky potato juice off her hands. _

Mom would be all over a comment like that,_ she thought, _dropping sledgehammer-subtle hints about wanting to be a hip, young grandmother.

_Esme, however, just gave her a small smile. "I've often thought the same thing. Okay, sweetheart, would you be able to dice these tomatoes while I grill the chicken?"_

"_Of course." _

_She blew out a breath, relieved that Edward's mother didn't seize the opportunity to remind her what a wonderful father he would be, having had so many years experience caring for children. Her own mother had brought this up at least three hundred and seventeen times in the month since Isabella had introduced her boyfriend to her parents. _

"_Can we do anything to help?" _

_Esme laughed as her husband's arms slid around her waist, turning her to face him. Isabella watched from the corner of her eyes as their foreheads touched, Carlisle's blond hair against Esme's dark red and silver._

"_Hey, pretty girl." _

_She jumped a little as arms encircled her, her giggle an echo of Esme's as Edward pulled her against him, his lips at her ear. _

"_Everything okay?" he asked, his voice low._

"_Fine," she whispered. "I really like your Mom—you know this."_

"_I do." He spoke into the soft skin where her neck met her shoulder. "But the last two times we've visited, she's stolen you away in here, and now I'm worried. One of these days, she's not going to give you back."_

_Isabella shook her head, her ponytail tickling Edward as he kissed her neck. "You're silly."_

"_Edward –" Carlisle's voice cut through their whispered conversation "– why don't you and Isabella go relax outside. I can help your mother finish up in here."_

"_Deal." Edward didn't release Isabella, walking her out of the kitchen still pressed against her back._

"_You're going to make us fall." Isabella giggled, stumbling when his foot kicked against hers as they made their way through the living room. _

"_Never."_

_She shrieked as Edward released her waist with one arm and swept it behind her knees, pulling her up into his arms._

"_Want to go for a swim?" he asked, his eyebrows lifting._

"_No!" She squealed, kicking her legs as he strode outside and towards the pool._

"_Edward Cullen! Don't you dare." His mother's voice rang out the open kitchen window. "Dinner will be ready in an hour."_

"_A whole hour, huh?" _

_Edward's gaze was heavy on Isabella's as she continued to wriggle in his arms. Her lips were set in a pout, but he could see in her eyes that a smile was threatening to break through._

_He collapsed onto one of the recliners by the pool without warning, causing Isabella to gasp and grab at his shoulders as he chuckled._

"_I can think of a really good way to spend an hour," he said. _

_Without giving her a chance to protest that they were at his parents' house, and where said parents could see them quite easily, his lips captured hers, lifting her by the waist until her knees fell either side of his lap. His fingers curled around her hips, rocking her forward as he pressed his hips up._

"_Edward." Her protest as his lips trailed down her neck was as much a plea for him to continue._

"_Don't worry," he murmured. "They're probably doing exactly the same thing right now."_

"_That's a little disturbing," she told him, her voice breathy with the desire she was trying to subdue._

_He shrugged, his tongue against her collarbone. _

"_I'm not sure … Oh." His teeth against her earlobe stole her conviction, and her hands were in his hair, pulling him closer even as her lips were saying, "We shouldn't … I mean … eww, and oh …"_

_Edward pulled back, licking his lips to taste the residue of her kisses, his eyes sparking. He spoke low and fast. "Firstly, my mom went through all kinds of shit with my dad. I grew up knowing the truth—knowing she'd been in a abusive relationship, so seeing her and Carlisle like that—all affectionate and whatever—really doesn't bother me. It did when I was a teenager, but I don't know … she deserves it, you know? To have someone love her like that."_

_Isabella bit her lip, her eyes on his lap as her heart thumped a syncopated rhythm—guilt warring with the love and respect that was exploding through her veins with the compassion and care that saturated Edward's voice._

"_And secondly –" he continued, his fingers tilting her chin up, his lips crawling into the smirk that made her stomach somersault "– why should they have all the fun?"_

_Isabella swallowed hard. "Here?"_

_Edward's finger left her chin, tracing down her throat and dipping into the scoop neck of her dress. "You haven't seen my bedroom here, yet."_

_Even as she heaved a mental sigh of relief, the tension in her body wound tighter. Edward's lips found her throat and her voice was breath-soft as butterflies tickled her belly. "No, I haven't."_

_His fingers trailing down her back, Edward smiled against her neck. "Well, that's an oversight I'll have to correct immediately."_

* * *

**A/N: You lovely people ... you steal my breath away with all your kind words. Thank you, it's truly amazing.**

**As ever, big thanks and huge hugs to MissWinkles, and the DTCPS ladies.**

**And Tam ... you're beautiful. Thank you, so much.**

**Shell xx**


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12.**

* * *

NB: There is a brief discussion of child abuse and domestic violence in this chapter.

* * *

"_Writing is a form of personal freedom. It frees us from the mass identity we see in the making all around us. In the end, writers will write not to be outlaw heroes of some underculture but mainly to save themselves, to survive as individuals." Don DeLillo_

* * *

"They're moving faster than we are."

I can hear the frown in his voice, and it makes me smile. "Uh-huh."

"It's already been four months?"

I nod. "Almost five. It's nearly winter for them."

"Huh." He thinks about it for a while. I imagine him looking out over the beach, bright with the late-summer sun, as my fingertips continue to clatter over the keys. "I guess things move faster than in real life?"

I pause. "Kind of. It's just … I can't detail every single moment in a relationship, you know? I can't write every single day, every single word of every conversation—the book would end up absurdly long, and pretty boring really. I've got to choose the things that matter. The events and conversations that show the most about the characters, you know?"

He nods. "Makes sense."

* * *

"_Hey." Isabella's lips curled in a sleepy smile when she felt the mattress dip with Edward's weight._

"_Sorry to wake you," he muttered. _

_The strain in his voice had her attention immediately, as did the fact that he hadn't crawled beneath the covers, but was sitting on the bed, his back to her, his head in his hands. _

_She sat up, shivering a little in the cool, early morning air. The lamp Edward had flicked on lit the room with a soft glow, but she could see it was still quite dark outside. Frowning, she glanced at the clock beside Edward's bed—it was just before seven o'clock in the morning. "You're home early?"_

"_Yeah."_

_Her tongue between her teeth, Isabella wondered whether she ought push him to talk, or leave him to his thoughts for now. She could see the strain in his hunched shoulders, the agitation in the way his hands scrubbed across his face._

_Crawling across the bed, she positioned herself beside him, her fingers on his knee. "Do you need anything?" She spoke quietly, uncertain as to how he was going to receive her when he was so palpably upset._

_He shook his head, but she thought it was less a negative answer to her question, and more like he was trying to shake the thoughts that were troubling him away. She pressed a kiss to his shoulder and offered him a small smile when he finally lifted his head to look at her._

_She was startled when his mouth crashed down on hers—she could taste the desperation and confusion in his kiss. _

_Edward groaned as Isabella met his kiss, matching his intensity as she gasped and grabbed his forearms, her fingers digging into his flesh. He could feel need sparking under his skin, the parts of him she wasn't touching prickling painfully. He tugged her into his lap, pulling her close, close, closer—her hands on his shoulders, his arms around her back, her legs around his waist._

_Undressing was a slow process, as Edward grew frustrated with the layers of fabric separating them, but seemed unable to put sufficient space between them for them to disrobe._

_Feeling the tension in his muscles, Isabella pulled away and stood up. She pulled her tee-shirt over her head, and kicked her pajama pants to the side. He watched her, unmoving, as she reached for him and pulled his scrub top over his shoulders._

"_Stand up," she murmured, her finger dipping into the elastic waist of his pants._

_He obeyed, and she pulled both his pants and underwear down, before she pushed on his shoulder, silently urging him to sit back down. Edward stirred himself to kick away the clothes that were tangled around his ankles, then reached for Isabella, guiding her back into his lap, his lips seeking hers immediately._

_His hands were everywhere, gliding down her back, palming her backside, wrapping around her to pull her close—like he was trying to touch every bit of her skin at once. His lips were just as busy, moving with urgency against her own, then dragging down her throat, closing over her nipples, before demanding her kisses again._

_Isabella wriggled a little, reaching between them to position him, and then he was pushing inside her, his eyes closed tight, his jaw clenching and the air escaping from between his teeth with a hiss. She moaned as his hands found her hips, setting her moving in a jolting rhythm. _

"_Hey." Hand on his cheek, she urged him to open his eyes, to look at her. _

_He did, and the storm raging in the sea green of his eyes made her heart stutter. "Oh, Edward." Her whispered words came in shaky gasps as he continued to move her over him. "It's okay … I'm here."_

_He curled one arm around her waist, the other across her shoulders, and she could feel the muscles in his thighs working as he continued to push up into her, causing them both to cry out at the intensity of the rhythm he had set. _

"_I know." The words came from behind his clenched teeth, before he groaned deep and low, his legs shaking as release crashed over him. _

_His hand slipped between them, and a few quick movements of his fingers had Isabella shaking and gasping as she followed._

_Drained and weary, Edward twisted and lay down, bringing Isabella with him. She let him tuck her head under his chin, his arms tight around her, both of them too overwhelmed to care about the sticky feel of skin dampened by sweat and sex. She was just starting to drift towards sleep when he spoke, his voice low and tight._

"_Claire sent me home." _

_She waited, not wanting to push._

"_This little girl came in yesterday morning. Broken arm, too many bruises, a few burns. She's a gorgeous kid. Huge brown eyes … just like yours. She's only four. The doctor wanted to keep her overnight because she was running a temperature._

"_Her mother came in to visit this evening, uh, with matching bruises—even more, really." He swallowed hard. Isabella's eyes squeezed closed as she understood what he wasn't saying. "And then the mother's boyfriend came in, and this kid … she was, just, utterly _terrified_. It was … she wet the bed and started crying and trying to hide and it was just … fuck ... I, uh, I thought I was going to lose it."_

"_Edward–" She didn't know what to say. _

"_Garrett knows me too well." His voice was bitter. "He dragged me out of there and told Claire to send me home."_

_He was silent for a few moments, his fingers toying with the ends of her hair. "It's not the first time I've seen shit like this, and it won't be the last. But it always breaks my heart, you know? It's just … it's so fucking wrong. It's disgusting. I wanted … I wanted to make him feel the way he'd made them feel." He sighed. "But that would make me no better than him."_

"_That's not true, Edward." Isabella's voice was sharp, and she felt him pause, a lock of her hair wrapped around his finger. "It's not wrong to be furious at that kind of … abuse. Or to want justice … of course you want that. He deserves that and worse." She sighed. "What, uh, what will happen?" _

"_The paediatric resident would have made a report, and CPS take it from there."_

_She nodded. "What will it mean for you?"_

"_I care for the patient. I do my job, I provide her with the care she needs. And we're supposed to try and involve her Mom a lot in her care—encourage her to be a good parent. Other than that, it's mostly in the hands of CPS."_

"_I meant … like, are you going to be okay when you go back in tomorrow night?"_

_Edward was silent for a long time, though the movement of his fingertips through her hair assured he was awake._

"_Like I said … I, uh, well, we've seen stuff like this before—and worse, even. It's never easy, not at all, no matter how minor the injuries are—because the most tender bruises are always the ones left on their spirits, you know? But normally, I guess, I … cope better. I don't know why tonight was so much harder." _

_Isabella felt the rise and fall of his chest as he sighed deeply. _

"_Yeah." He kissed the top of her head. "I'll be okay. This is the ugly side of what I do, you know? Sometimes it just catches up with me."_

_He felt the gentle pressure of her lips against his chest. "I love you, Edward."_

"_I love you, too." His arms tightened around her. "Thank you, pretty girl. Thanks for, uh, listening … and um, yeah. It helped. Your being here. Holding you, and all that."_

_Isabella smiled, she could almost hear his cheeks flush. "All that?" she teased._

"_Mmm." He kissed her hair again. "_All_ that … Come on, pretty girl. We should clean up."_

"'_kay."_

_She climbed off the bed, reaching for his hand as he stood. He smiled, pulling her into his arms, his embrace brief but fierce._

"_Thank you."_

* * *

_When Edward awoke again, he felt more in control of his emotions, the anger and stomach-churning disgust of the previous night having ebbed away to sorrow and resignation. He yawned, his spine cracking a little as he arched, stretching. _

_Looking out the window, he guessed it must be early afternoon—though the sky was cloudless, the light was winter-weak. Bright but not warming. He reached for the dark-haired girl who had run away with his heart, only to find his bed empty, his sheets cool. She'd been up for a while, then._

_He lay still, listening for the sounds of her fingertips clattering across her laptop keyboard, but his apartment was silent. His brow creasing, Edward swung his legs over the edge of the bed, grabbed the pants she had pulled off him the previous evening and dragged them back on._

_He padded out into the kitchen, looking around for any sign of Isabella. There was a mug of coffee on the bench, still topped with a wisp of steam, but she wasn't in the kitchen … or at the breakfast table, and he couldn't hear the shower running. _

_A flicker of movement caught his eye, and he turned, stopping short as he drank her in._

_Isabella was standing on the balcony, her back against the railing, a mug of coffee cupped in her hands. She had one of his hooded sweaters over her pajamas, and a pair of his socks swamping her feet. As he watched, a gust of wind lifted her hair, whipping it around her face and neck._

So beautiful,_ he thought, feeling as though a small child at the top of a steep grassy slope had commandeered his stomach to use as an inner tube. Rolling, rolling, faster and faster, tumbling over and over—he felt almost dizzy with the feeling. _

_He pulled open the glass door and stepped outside—remembering only as the icy breeze wrapped around him that he was still shirtless. Rather than stumble back inside, though, he reached for Isabella, pulling her into his chest as she laughed in surprise._

"_You'll get a cold," she told him, waggling a finger in his face._

"_Keep me warm then," he replied, his voice still husky from sleep._

"_Inside, silly boy." She pushed at his chest. "Come on."_

"_Are we going to do something fun to warm up?" _

_Isabella laughed as he stepped back inside and wrapped his arms around her waist—his body telling her exactly what kind of "fun" he had in mind. _

_He kissed her nose. "I missed waking up to you."_

_She shook her head, her dark eyes becoming serious as she looked up at him. "You needed to rest. How are you feeling?"_

_He smiled, touched by her care. "I'm okay."_

_Her eyes searched his, looking for any hint of reservation, any hint that he was hedging, or giving her the answer he thought she wanted to hear, but all she could see was honesty and affection in his gaze. _

_She stepped back, out of his embrace, and set her mug on the table. "Come on. You need to take a shower—warm up a little."_

"_Are you going to come with me?"_

_In answer, she pulled the purloined hoodie over her head and tossed it on the floor._

_The shower did help Edward to warm up, through he couldn't be sure whether that was due to the hot water beating down against his skin, the pretty girl on her knees before him, or the tender affection that he could feel radiating from the very centre of his heart to the tips of his fingers and toes. He suspected it was probably a combination of all three._

_His knees buckled, his hand slamming against the wall as he fought to stay upright. His head spun as every muscle locked and relaxed, his curses lost behind the splash of water against the tiled floor._

_Isabella groaned a little as she got to her feet, her knees bearing the imprint of the tiles. As she reached for the soap, Edward's arm snaked around her waist and he pulled her into his embrace. She giggled as she felt the rapid movement of his chest as he struggled to catch his breath. _

"_What's funny, pretty girl?"_

"_You." She giggled again, rolling her eyes back in her head and slamming her hand against the wall. _

_Edward's eyes narrowed as he watched her eyes dance in amusement—at his expense. "You really want to play that game, baby?"_

_Isabella's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "What game?"_

_Edward's answer was to drop slowly to his knees, his fingers curling around her hips and digging into her fleshy curves._

"_Oh," she whispered. _

_Only a few minutes later, it was Isabella's knees buckling as Edward's fingers and tongue demanded her release. She succumbed, little cries spilling from her lips as her orgasm rushed through her body, synapses firing, muscles tightening and releasing._

_Her eyelids heavy, her smile lazy, she ran her fingers through his water-dark hair. "Remind me to tease you more often."_

_Edward chuckled as he climbed to his feet. "Deal."_

* * *

_Edward watched as Isabella gathered her things—stuffing her laptop into its case and winding up her cords. Her lips were pressed tight and her eyes seemed even darker than usual as she fussed about, checking her bag for her keys and phone and whatever else she had brought with her._

_His own forehead creasing with concern, Edward couldn't keep quiet any longer. "What's going on, Isabella? Are you okay?" _

_She paused, shaking her head as she stuffed her wallet into her handbag. Her hands went to her hips, and her face tipped up, her lips moving slightly as she seemed to speak to the ceiling._

"_Sweetheart?"_

_Her eyes snapped to him and she sighed, her shoulders sagging. "I'm just worried."_

"_About what, love?"_

"_You."_

_Edward blinked. _

_Catching his bemused expression, Isabella sighed, leaving her things and crossing the room to where he was perched on the arm of his threadbare couch._

"_I'm just worried for you, going to work tonight … well, you know."_

_Puzzled, Edward took her hands and tangled their fingers together. "I don't understand. Are you worried I'll do something stupid?" He tried to push the hurt that accompanied this thought away._

"_Of course not!" she told him, looking somewhat appalled at the suggestion. "I just … I saw how upset you were this morning. It … well, I wish I could … I just don't want you to be upset, hurting."_

"_Oh, Isabella." Releasing her hands, he pulled into a hug, his knees against her thighs, his head pressed against her chest. "Love …"_

_She said nothing, but rested her cheek against the top of his head._

"_It happens—bad days like that. Unfortunately. And I doubt it will get easier, you know? I hope it never does, because that would mean I'm becoming dispassionate, and I never want that to happen. But I cope, okay? And you know what—having you here, having someone to talk to, having you listen and care—it helps. It really does. Even your concern now, that you're worried for me—I appreciate that, you know?"_

_She nodded, her cheek rubbing across his hair. "Okay."_

"_Do you want me to come by your place when I get off in the morning?"_

_He felt her nod. "Yeah."_

_He pulled back, releasing her and stood up. His hands against her cheeks, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, then her lips. "Okay. I'll be there around eleven."_

* * *

I sigh heavy, then blow a raspberry as I save the words that have marched out of my fingertips and across my screen.

I look at my cell phone, and there is a flutter of nerves my belly as I reach for it. I shoot off a quick text before I can talk myself out of it.

It chimes before I've even set it back down.

**From Emily Young:  
****I'd love to! Sam's in about an hour?**

* * *

"Hi, Bella!"

Emily's smile is huge, her brown arms waving as she flags my attention.

"Hi, Em." I kiss her cheek, and wave at her tiny bump. "Hi, baby."

She laughs at me and I shrug. "Just being polite."

"How have you been, Bea?"

"Pretty good. Same old, same old, I guess. How are you?"

"I'm great." She smirks a little. "So, I'm reading this really amazing book."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mmm-hmm. It's called _Finding Jessica_—you heard of it?"

I purse my lips and pretend to think about it, tapping my finger against my chin. "I heard the girl who wrote it is a bit of a doofus."

"Yeah, that's what I'm told, too." She giggles. "Dude, you write books!"

"Apparently."

"That's awesome."

I just laugh. "So, how are you settling in? The commute killing you yet?"

"It's hard," she tells me, her blue eyes on the cardboard coaster she's flipping over and over. "Long days, you know? But Liam's pretty awesome. He cooks dinner during the week, which is such a help. I dunno, he's just thoughtful—he'll put on a load of washing if it needs to go on, or iron his own shirts—he just notices the shit that needs to be done and he does it."

"That's wonderful."

Our conversation meanders around, getting to know each other some more and trading stories. Emily's easy-going, and though she's several years older than me, she's easy to relate to—she's honest and real. She's a strong woman with strong opinions that she shares without apology—but she also doesn't feel the need to act like a bitch to prove herself. I can't help but admire her.

We disagree on a lot of things—from music to movies to politics—but I've never felt so comfortable talking to a girlfriend. I like it. I like that we have such varying tastes and opinions—it makes things interesting.

I even like that she's cussing me out for saying I dislike any movie with Rachel McAdams in it, just on principle.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me, Bea? You didn't like _Midnight in Paris_?"

I frown. "I haven't seen it."

"That's bullshit," she says. "What are you doing right now?"

"Arguing with you about simpering female actresses."

She throws a fry at me. It hits me in the nose and I blink before we both dissolve into giggles.

"You're such a brat. No. You're coming over right now and we're watching the fuck outta this movie."

I shrug and sigh dramatically. "If you say so."

She nods. "I say so."

"Fine. And, by the way, how do you watch _the fuck_ out of a movie?"

Another fry smacks into my face.

* * *

Several hours later, Em is doing the most ridiculous victory dance I've ever seen, while Liam shakes his head in embarrassment, and I suffocate on my laughter.

"I told you!" she shouts, standing on the arm of the couch, her fists in the air. "I knew I could make you like a movie with her in it!"

"Em, baby–" Liam shakes his head as she pokes her tongue out at him. "Baby, get down before you hurt yourself or my baby."

"Your baby? Your–" She shakes her at him, but climbs down carefully. "I fucking wish we were seahorses, babe."

Liam looks at her like she's just told him she wished he had two heads and a tail.

"Boy seahorses get pregnant," I tell him.

"Oh." He shakes his head. "Well, in that case, me, too."

Emily squints at him. "You, too, what?"

"I wish we were seahorses."

She snorts. "Yeah? You want the morning sickness and the achy boobs and the stretch marks and all that shit?"

"I don't think seahorses get morning sickness." He laughs, but shrugs. "Okay, so some of it sucks, but dude, you're gonna get to feel the peanut like, swimming around and stuff, you know? That's fucking cool."

Emily's eyes soften—the sarcastic sparks fading to this soft kind of glow as she smiles at her boyfriend.

"I, uh, I gotta go." I say quickly, not wanting to get in the way of their moment. "Thanks for lunch, Em—and the movie. I'll see you guys, soon."

I don't mind when Emily just smiles and murmurs a quiet goodbye, her eyes still focused on Liam. I'm happy for them, honestly. They're wonderful to each other, and the way they're looking at each other—surprisingly enough, it makes me hopeful rather than wistful.

I walk home with a small smile on my lips, and the burning heat of his arm across my shoulders.

"I'm glad you had fun today," he says.

"Me, too." I sigh. "It's nice to have a girlfriend. I've missed Alice, you know? But I just don't want to see her. Not yet. It's not even that she's with J.J. It's how different she is now that she's with him. She used to be so astute, perceptive, but since she and Jasper got together … it's like … I don't know, like she's so wrapped up in her own relationship that she doesn't have the brain power to spare to consider other people's feelings."

He squeezes me closer.

"Em and Liam are every bit as head over heels about each other, you know? But they make an effort to be inclusive. I don't feel awkward around them, even when they do have a moment like that."

He chuckles, pressing his lips to my temple. "Time for us to have a moment, pretty girl."

My smile feels as bright as the sun lighting my face.

* * *

"_So, will you read to me?" Edward asked._

_Isabella hesitated. It seemed to her that to read her words, unedited, uncensored, letting them fill the air between them—speaking them into existence—was somehow more intimate than baring her body or her heart to him. It was peeling back every protective layer she had and exposing her very soul._

_She looked at him seriously, her eyes finding his, searching. _

He already knows my soul_, she thought._

"_Yes," she whispered. "Come on."_

_Linking her fingers through his, she led him to the couch, pulling her laptop onto her knees._

_Edward watched her fingers move around the track pad, the little creases between her eyes as they scanned the screen, and he realized belatedly that this, somehow, meant more than he had anticipated. He thought he was asking to see her work—the same way he shared stories from the hospital. But seeing the way she sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, the way her free hand fluttered as she focused on pulling up the document she was looking for—he realized he had inadvertently asked for much more. _

_She was making herself vulnerable, allowing him to see something that meant so much to her—something that came from so deep inside that letting him see it, raw, was tantamount to her stripping naked and letting him examine every flaw. The air caught in his throat as he understood what he had asked of her—and what she was willing to give him._

"_Isabella?"_

"_Mmm?" She looked at him over the top of the screen, her dark eyes shining._

"_Thank you."_

_She nodded, smiling. "Sure … Are you ready?" _

"_Absolutely."_

"_All right. So, this story is about a girl named Rachel. She's had her heart broken by Embry, and she's now with a guy named Alistair, who is incredibly boring. Basically, she'll realize that sometimes you have to take a chance—loving Embry is a risk, but it's worth it."_

"_This Embry guy—he changes, right? He's different? Before she goes back to him."_

_She tilted her head, her lips twitching. "Yeah. He changes. He grows up."_

_Edward nodded. "Okay. Good."_

"_Okay. So, this is the first time Rachel has seen Embry since they broke up." She took a deep breath and began to read._

"_Rachel's hermetically sealed heart weighs heavy in her chest as she catches sight of the dimples that had once set it bouncing around in her chest like a pinball. She watches Embry talk to the man beside him, his hazel eyes serious as he listens carefully. It's a strange sight. Rachel isn't sure she's ever seen his face drawn this way—his eyebrows furrowed and his lips pursed as he gives the speaker his full attention._

"_Embry has always worn a smile, seemingly incapable of being serious about anything or anyone. It was one of the things that drew her to him, and also became the thing that eventually alienated her._

"He's different now,_ she thinks. There's a bitter tone to the thought, a "sucked in" attached to it that she won't admit to herself._

"_Beside her, Alistair continues to prattle on, oblivious as always, to the wild heart locked inside the beautiful woman beside him. He's always appreciated Rachel, but he doesn't see past the window dressing. He accepts her restraint—he likes it. She's a pretty adornment on his arm, a beautiful bauble to impress family and friends. But he doesn't see what she hides, and he doesn't want to. He doesn't want deep and passionate and vital. He wants simple and pretty. He wants a puddle he can skip over, not an ocean that will sweep him away._

"_As Alistair talks at her, Rachel continues to watch Embry between sips of champagne. She sees him slip his finger into his collar and tug gently, she sees him shift his weight from his left foot to his right and back again, sees him finger the diamond stud in his left ear—mostly, she sees his discomfort, and she wonders where he lost that gregarious confidence she had both admired and despised …"_

_Isabella wrinkled her nose as she set her laptop of the coffee table. Clearing her dry throat, she sighed. "It needs some work. Every time I read through it I see a bunch of things I want to change." _

_Edward smiled, pulling her into his lap. "This Alistair guy sounds like a dick."_

"_He's not a dick ... he's just … well, I guess he's a little superficial. He wants an easy life that looks good to people on the outside. He's concerned about impressions and advancement and projecting niceness, respectability. He thinks he's found that in Rachel, but the truth is—they're just not a good fit. She's closed off, and he mistakes her being reserved for her being pliable, you know?"_

"_So … she's holding back? And he's … projecting what he wants to see, rather than encouraging her to be who she wants to be?"_

_Isabella smiled at Edward's frown, his nose wrinkling at his assessment. "Exactly."_

"_So, he _is_ a dick."_

_She laughed. "Maybe—a little."_

"_A little dick?" He chuckled. "Poor Rachel."_

_Isabella shook her head. "You're silly."_

_He laughed, his hands warm as they crawled beneath her shirt and began to explore the soft skin of her back. "I know. Will you kiss me anyway?"_

_Her lips found his immediately, and slow and soft quickly became hard and needy, and clothes were shed and strewn across the living room floor. They made love on the couch, limbs tangled, and each other's names spilling from their lips._

* * *

"_You're late," Pete informed them as he opened the door, his dark eyes narrowed in mock-disapproval. _

_He winked at Isabella, who shook her head at him. At first, Peter and Garrett had made her nervous, but she had quickly seen—despite the almost constant teasing they subjected him to—that both men held Edward in high regard, respected him professionally, and cared for him deeply._

_Edward rolled his eyes. "Sorry, I had better things to do."_

"_Like Isabella?" Garrett asked, appearing behind his boyfriend. _

_He, too, winked at Isabella, his smile megawatt-bright._

"_Obviously."_

_All three men stopped short, looking at her with open-mouthed surprise. _

"_What?" She sniffed. "It's true."_

_Giggling, she pushed past Garrett and Peter, stepping inside, pulling her coat and gloves off. _

_Edward recovered first, following her, making sure his elbow found Garrett's ribs as he pushed past him. He pulled his own coat off and tossed it over the leather couch. "The place looks great."_

"_Thanks." Pete smiled, his composure recovering quickly. "I think we're pretty much set up now. Right, Gar?"_

_The taller man nodded. "Yeah. I think there's a few boxes of books and DVDs in the garage still, but otherwise, we're all moved in."_

"_It looks fantastic," Isabella said, lifting the lid off the large pot simmering away on the stove. "And this smells amazing. What is it?"_

"_Feijoada."_

"_Um, Brazilian?" she guessed._

"_Yep." Pete grinned. He pointed at another pan. "And that's the farofa. We'll be ready to eat in about ten minutes."_

"_Isabella, would you like some wine?" _

"_Thanks, Garrett—that would be great." She looked at Edward. "Your turn to drive home, okay?"_

_Edward's lips twitched as he nodded. "Yeah, all right." _

_Hers eyebrows lifted as he heaved a sigh. She knew he was playacting—she was all too aware of exactly how much he enjoyed the demands she made of him when the alcohol in her system became noisier than her natural shyness. _

_Accepting the glass Garrett handed her, Isabella took a sip of wine, and moved to look out the window. The sun was sinking into the sea, painting the deep blue sky with gold. "You've got a beautiful view."_

"_Yeah," Pete said. "We were here just on sunset when we were inspecting the place, and that–" he pointed to the sunset "–is actually what convinced us that this was the one."_

_Garrett nodded, slipping an arm around his partner's waist. "Even though we probably won't be here to share it too often—with the shifts we work—we figured it would be completely worth it on those days that we are."_

"_Stunning." Edward's voice was low, laced with wonder._

_She turned, smiling to look at him. His eyes were not on the spectacular view afforded by the house's location, but on her, as he watched red and bronze and copper light play across her hair. His breath caught as her eyes lifted, the sinking sun catching in them, making them shine almost golden. He thought she looked like some faery creature from another world—fey and wild, otherworldly and ephemeral. _

_Peter clapped his hands, breaking the spell. "Dinner's ready."_

_Laughter and conversation rang through the small space as the four friends shared their meal and their stories. The three nurses had a seemingly unending reservoir of tales—both hilarious and poignant—and Isabella's cheeks began to ache from laughing and smiling._

_As he sipped the vodka and tonic in his hand, Peter's expression became suddenly sly. "So, Isabella. Edward never did tell us the full story of how you two met."_

_Edward's hand found her knee, squeezing gently. She placed a hand over his, returning the pressure, reassuring him she was comfortable with this topic of discussion._

_She smiled, remembering. "He needed a pen."_

_Both Peter and Garrett looked at Edward, twin expressions of skepticism shading their features and narrowing their eyes. He looked at his empty plate, feeling his blood pooling hot on his cheeks._

"_Edward always-has-at-least-six-pens-in-his-pocket Cullen needed a pen?" Pete tipped his head, studying his colleague. "Really? Why do I find that so hard to believe?"_

_Garrett chuckled darkly. "Maybe because he always has at least six pens his pocket?"_

_Isabella squinted, looking between the two men, before she focused on Edward. "You're blushing?"_

_Ignoring the other guys' catcalls, she linked her fingers through his where they still rested on her knee. "You didn't need a pen?"_

_He shook his head, his green eyes finally lifting to meet hers. He was relieved to see her expression was clear, she looked puzzled and amused, but not angry._

"_I saw you when I was carrying our coffees—nearly tripped over my own feet actually." He sighed. "And then I was sitting behind you, and I saw you tucking your pens into your hair and I thought it was the cutest thing I'd ever seen."_

"_He couldn't keep his eyes off you." Peter added, his head bobbing._

_Garrett rolled his eyes. "Pete, shush." _

"_Anyway, as these clowns will tell you, I'm … well, I'm kinda shy –"_

"_He's got no game."_

"_Pete, shut up."_

"_It's true. You know it."_

"_Yeah, I know it. But let him tell it."_

"_Sorry."_

_Edward sighed. "I don't know, I saw the pens and it seemed like as good an opening as any. They're right—I have no idea how to approach girls. And then, you were so confused trying to find them in your bag." His lips curved up as he remembered. "It was too damn cute."_

_Although Isabella rolled her eyes, she felt as though an Olympic gymnast was swinging on the uneven bars of her heart and stomach._

"_I couldn't believe it when you actually gave me your number," he confessed._

"_I'd noticed you," she admitted. _

_She bit her lip to stop the smile from overtaking her face. _

"_I heard the three of you come in. You were laughing." Her eyes locked with Edward's. "I saw you trip, too. But I forced myself not to look up—I didn't want to embarrass you."_

_Ignoring the oohing and aahing and "nawww, so sweet" from Garrett and Peter's side of the table, she leaned over and pressed her lips to Edward's. The kiss was brief but tender, and as they pulled back, they each saw the wonder they felt reflected in the other's eyes. _

"_Should we just go and leave you guys to your moment?" Pete's patience seemed to have worn out._

"_Yeah, Pete. That would be great, thanks." Isabella smirked._

_Edward chuckled and slung an arm across her shoulder, pressing a kiss to her temple. _

"_Okay. Time for dessert." Garrett stood up, his chair scraping across the tiled floor. "Pete! Get the cognac."_

* * *

The house is shadowed and silent when I stumble into bed, my thighs still warm from my laptop. I pull the curtains closed and collapse into bed.

I toss and turn, chasing sleep. Every time my fingers grab its tail, it slips from my grasp and my eyes snap open again.

Frustrated to the point of tears, I close my eyes and let him come to me.

"Oh, pretty girl. What's wrong?"

"Can't sleep." My pillow muffles the words as I press my face into it. "Help me, please?"

He chuckles, his breath hot on the back of my neck, as fingers slide under my belly and into my panties.

He teases and pinches and strokes until my hips take over, rocking and writhing against his fingertips, my pants and moans dulled by fabric and down.

I fall over the edge, his name on my lips, and straight into the sweet oblivion of sleep as my body finally stops fighting, tamed by his touch.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you. Yes, you. All of you. Every single one of you who reads, follows, favourites, tweets, reviews and PMs. I appreciate it so, so much.**

**Special thanks to MissWinkles, and the ladies of the DTCPS, who WC with me and make life and writing awesome.**

**And to Tam, my beta, cleaner, editor, cheerleader, ledge-talker-offer, word-sharer, friend: thank you! Love ya, bb.**

**Shell x**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13.**

* * *

"_Write your story as it needs to be written. Write it honestly, and tell it as best you can. I'm not sure that there are any other rules. Not ones that matter." Neil Gaiman_

* * *

"_Edward?"_

"_Mmm." _

_Isabella sighed, her hands moving to her hips as she watched him stare at the television screen, the light flickering bluish on his face. His long legs were stretched across her couch, and his feet, crossed at the ankles, were resting on her coffee table. A bottle of beer sat on the arm of her couch, condensation soaking a darkened circle into the fabric._

"_Edward?"_

_Hearing the sharpness in her voice, his eyes left the screen to find hers. He frowned as he took in her posture. "What's … Um … Do we have plans?"_

_Isabella shook her head. "No, but I was wondering if we could go into the city this evening? There's an exhibition I wanted to see …" she trailed off as she watched him scrub his hands across his unshaven jaw, his eyes closing._

"_Sure, sure." He sighed. "Just … I need to take a shower and get changed, okay?"_

_His feet swung to the floor, and he sat up straighter, his brow creased. He looked at his feet, his toes flexing, as though he was trying to remind his body how to stand, like he had to encourage his legs to support his weight._

"_Wait."_

"_No, no." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "It's fine, I just need a few minutes."_

_Isabella moved quickly towards him and sat on his lap, effectively preventing him from getting up. Her eyebrows drew together as she looked closely at his face. Her fingers traced the dark shadows beneath his eyes, frowning as she saw the exhaustion that reddened the whites of his eyes. _

"_We won't go."_

"_Isabella. It's fine, really." He sighed, hearing the snap in his tone. "If you want to go—we'll go."_

"_I don't want to go," she lied, then sighed at the skeptical expression twisting his lips. "Okay, I do want to go. But it can wait. Look at you—you're exhausted. You need to rest."_

"_I can rest later," he said. "We'll go, and I'll just go to bed as soon as we get home."_

"_Edward, no. We'll go next weekend or something."_

_He shook his head, frustrated. "We can –"_

"_No." Isabella smiled. "It doesn't have to be today. You're exhausted. Why are you fighting me on this?" She took his hand and linked their fingers. _

_His free hand raked through his messy hair. "I just … The hours I work suck, a lot of the time. And—especially when I'm on nights—it can be really hard to _do_ anything. So, when I'm working dayshifts … I don't know, love … I don't want being with me to cause you to miss out on anything."_

"_Oh, baby." Isabella cupped his cheek and the warmth of her palm seemed to sink right through his skin and into his blood. "I'm not missing out. Never."_

"_I just … I want you to be able to do absolutely everything you want to do."_

_She smiled, kissing his nose. "I know. And thank you. But, Edward—I'd rather just be with you, you know? If you're tired, it's okay. You're not going to enjoy yourself if you're half asleep. I'm not going to enjoy myself if I'm worrying about you being exhausted."_

"_But –"_

"_No buts. We'll just plan things better. Do those sort of things, things that require long drives and whatever, when you've got a few days off in a row. We'll make it work, okay?"_

_He searched her dark eyes, looking for any trace of insincerity, or frustration, or disappointment. _

"_Okay."_

"_Good." She nodded. "Now, go nap or something."_

"_What are you going to do?"_

"_I'm going to write for a while. I'll wake you up when dinner is ready."_

_She moved to climb off his lap but Edward's arms snaked around her waist, holding her close. "I love you." He spoke the words against her chest, to the place where he could just see her heartbeat pulsing under her skin._

"_I love you, too." _

_He felt her lips on his forehead, warm and soft. _

"_Go get some sleep."_

* * *

"_You_ should go get some sleep."

"Yeah, yeah." I yawn, stretching my arms and arching my back.

Glancing at the clock, I sigh and shake my head. It's half past six, and the sun is just creeping up over the horizon to streak the sky with morning. Dawn comes later as summer begins to fade away. And I will waste another sun-warmed day sleeping off the words that have held me captive through the night.

I collapse on my bed, too exhausted to pay any attention to his whispered suggestions, or his hands on my skin.

* * *

When I wake, the sun is starting its downward arc. The sea breeze whispers against my curtains, and I can hear the dull roar of the ocean.

Every nerve in my body awakens and I kick off my skirt and panties in frustration, stretching my shirt as I pull it over my head. The cotton sheets rasp against my skin, strangely abrasive—Edward's unshaven chin scratching down my naked body.

Need pulses through me, and I brush him away, too impatient for his teasing touches. I imagine his chuckle, hot and damp against my thigh, his demand that I let him watch. I almost want to tell him to go fuck himself, but instead, I kick the sheets from the bed. I want to show him how crazy he makes me.

My eyes closed, my fingers circling and pinching, I imagine him taking himself in hand, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he strokes himself, his eyes fixed on me.

His gaze makes my skin prickle, and my blood boil.

He chuckles again as I curse through my climax, then groans my name as he follows.

* * *

I'm still strangely out of sorts when I slump into my chair and open my laptop. The strong Americano fills my senses with its pungent aroma, and the caffeine buzzes through my bloodstream, making me twitchy and agitated. My fingers drum with impatience as I wait for the document to load then scroll through to find my place.

I stare at the blinking cursor, irritation prickling my neck as I stare at the black words littering the page. I take a deep breath, close my eyes for a heartbeat, then set my fingers loose on the keys.

* * *

_Edward's phone rang in the dead of night, startling him awake. He was on his feet immediately, blinking and shaking his head, trying to orient himself in the enveloping blackness of his bedroom._

_A dim light clicked on as Isabella tapped the bedside lamp. "What's going on, Edward?"_

_He shook his head. "I don't know."_

"_Answer the phone," she said, her voice patient._

"_Yeah." He nodded once, still stuck halfway between sleep and waking. "Right. The phone."_

_The noisy buzzing and ringing ceased just as he reached for the device. _

"_Who was it?" Isabella asked, yawning. _

_She glanced at the alarm clock: 3:45am._

"_Um … Pete." _

_Edward frowned, icy worry starting to trickle into his veins. "He wasn't on tonight. And neither was Gar."_

_Isabella reached for him. "Come back to bed. They'll call back if it's important."_

"_Yeah. Yeah." Edward nodded but made no effort to move, standing at the foot of the bed, still staring at his cell phone._

_He almost dropped it when its screen lit up and it began to ring again. "Pete? What's going on?"_

_Isabella's heart dropped into her stomach as Edward's knees buckled and the flush of sleep drained from his face. His eyes scrunched tight, she could almost feel the pain radiating across the room, starting at the center of his chest and bursting outwards like a supernova._

"_No. No." _

_He sank to the floor, and she could see the light catching on the heavy tears rolling down his cheeks._

_Isabella climbed out of bed and grabbed the pair of jeans Edward had stripped her out of a few hours earlier. She pulled them back on and made a quick mental inventory of where her keys, wallet and phone were located._

_She sat down beside him, her hand on his shoulder, as he shook his head at whatever he was hearing, as if he could make it come untrue if he denied it enough. He grabbed her other hand, holding it tightly, like she was all that was anchoring him against the hurricane of pain threatening to sweep him away._

"_Pete …" he paused, like he didn't know what he should say. "D-do you want me to come down?"_

_Isabella could feel the tremors shooting through his body as she patted his shoulder._

"_Are you sure?"_

_She rubbed circles on his back._

"_Okay … okay … Call me … Yeah … I'm s-so fucking sorry, man … Yeah … I love you, brother."_

_The phone dropped into his lap as Edward took a deep breath and turned to Isabella. _

"_Garrett –"_

_It was the only word he could manage before his face crumpled and the storm broke. His sobs were violent, ripped from his chest as his body curled in on itself. His arms circled his knees, like he was trying to literally hold himself together._

_Isabella's eyes stung as she pulled him close, carefully guiding his head into her lap. She didn't need to ask what had happened, it was clear enough from the anguished cries spilling into the air. Loss and grief smothered them as she ran her fingers through his hair, as she gave him the only comfort she could—her presence._

* * *

I'm out of my chair and across the room as the air is knocked from my lungs.

_What the fuck have I done?_

"Hey, pretty girl. Calm down."

His fingers are in my hair, his lips at my temple. His voice is shaky, though; I can hear the anguish in it. Anguish I've caused.

"No." I shake my head, my eyes still fixed on the word-covered screen.

They sprawl across it, black and looming; they've never been so ugly to me as they are in this moment.

"Hey, it's okay," he whispers. "It'll be okay."

I hate the comfort he's offering me so easily. I don't deserve it. I should be comforting him.

"I did this." Guilt practically strangles me. "I did this to you, to Peter—to Garrett. I t-took him away. I killed him."

"No, no. Love, shhh."

I shake my head, pushing his arms away. I wipe the tears from my face and take a step towards my laptop. "I'll rewrite it. I'll change it. Something he can survive. Just … just severe injuries. Something he can survive. Something he can recover from. Broken bones, a head injury. He c-can heal."

"No, love." He pulls me away from my desk and onto his lap, whispering quiet comfort. "It's okay."

"It's not okay." I shout the words, spitting them at him. "It's not okay. I killed him."

"Bella. Sweetheart." He sighs. "This is the way it's supposed to go."

"No."

His fingers breeze through my hair. "Yes, love. I know it's tragic. It's awful and it hurts. It hurts so bad. My heart is breaking and … Pete, he's crushed. He's utterly devastated. Of course he is."

A sob bursts from my lips and I push my fingers against them, my shaky hand trying to contain the sorrow and guilt that wants to spill forth.

"But this is real, Bella. People dying—death is part of life. That's no comfort, I know. But it's the truth, and it sucks."

He holds me tighter, I can almost feel his heartbeat pounding through his chest and into mine. "But, love, people deal with this every day. Having the people they love—people they think they can't possibly live without—ripped from their lives. We lose the people we love. Bella, the people who read your books, they know that pain. They do. All too intimately. And that's why you have to—why you need to write this."

I shake my head.

"This is real. Loss and pain, suffering. It's part of being alive, it's part of being human. Write it because this is life."

I say nothing, resting in his comfort as a few more tears slide, hot and salty, down my face.

He comes back to the computer with me, his hand on my shoulder, whispering words of comfort in my ear.

* * *

_Isabella smoothed the hair off Edward's brow and wiped the dampness from his cheeks, murmuring softly. "I'm here. I love you."_

_Impotence consumed her, but she knew there was nothing more that she could say. She couldn't promise him it would be okay, or find it in herself to tell him that everything happens for a reason. The words felt empty in her mind. _

_Death is senseless, the clumsy groping of a blind fool, knocking fragilely constructed lives into disarray, leaving the pieces scattered and broken. _

"_Does Pete … should we … is he alone?"_

_Edward shook his head, reaching for her hand. His voice was scratchy, a sandpaper whisper. "He's with his parents, and Garrett's."_

"_Okay."_

"_We'll go see him … later? Maybe tomorrow?" He sat up, his storm-tossed gaze uncertain, needing her to tell him it was the right thing to do._

_Her fingers tightening in his, she nodded. "Give them a few days. Are … are their families close?"_

_Edward's lips lifted with half a smile. "Yeah. They, uh – well, both their parents' have always been incredibly supportive of them. Garrett …" he shook his head, his wrist swiping under his nose. "He always said they were blessed with families who would support every decision they made. They all only met recently. When they moved in together, they had everyone over. They were both buzzing for days. Pete said everyone just clicked. Garrett's parents made him feel really welcome, and his parents—he said they loved …"_

_A sob drowned his words, as more tears tripped over his eyelashes, spilling down his cheeks. _

_Isabella gave him a sad smile as she touched his face gently. "Come here."_

_She stood up and tugged the hand she was still clasping. Edward let her pull him to his feet, let her slender arms circle his waist and embrace him tightly. His cheek on the top of her head, the tears slid from his face into her hair. _

_Though she knew sleep would likely elude them for a long time, she pulled from his embrace and kicked her jeans off. She led Edward back to bed, and curled into his body as his chest continued to heave and shudder with his quiet cries._

* * *

_A few hours after dawn had broken—cold and clear—Edward startled from sleep. His body was curved around Isabella's, his arms around her waist, their legs tangled. It took a few moments for him to remember why his eyes felt puffy and sore, why his throat ached and his chest felt tight._

_His memories of the night before weighed heavy over him, forcing the breath from his lungs with a shudder. He buried his face in Isabella's neck, trying to lose himself in the silky tickle of her hair and the softness of her skin. _

_His tears falling freely, sliding hot across his cheeks and into his pillow, his hands wandered across her flesh, gentle but desperate as he sought the comfort of her familiar curves. Her arm moved to curl around his neck and into his hair, her nails moving quietly against his scalp as she wordlessly encouraged him to take what solace he could from her body._

_His fingers moved across her skin, his hands moving frantically as he tried to cover every bit of her at once. One hand dipped between her legs as the other traced across her breasts, causing her to arch back against him. His lips found her shoulders, his kisses changing from soft brushes to hard sucking as he pulled her skin into his mouth, causing the blood to pool at the surface._

_He felt the change in her breathing as he pushed inside her, heard the change in pitch of her moans and though he could not see her face, the intimacy of the moment, like a held breath, seemed to steal all the air from the room. _

_His lips tracing the curve of her shoulder, his hips demanding her pleasure, Edward's eyes continued to fill with tears. His body knew her sounds, knew all her little gasps and cries, and as her climax peaked, he followed, sadness and release coursing through his veins and pushing a sob from his throat._

_Immediately, Isabella squirmed in his arms, rolling over and reaching for him, her hands on his face as grief and loss crashed over him again, sucking him into the black abyss._

_He could barely hear Isabella's soft voice over the strangled noises of his own despair. "I'm here. I love you."_

* * *

_Edward's fingers tightened reflexively around Isabella's as the knuckles of his other hand rapped against the wood of Peter and Garrett's front door. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the thought. _

Just Pete. It's just Pete's place now. _He wondered if that would ever taste less bitter. _

_As the door swung open, he doubted it. How could it ever become easier?_

_Peter's eyes were shadowed with grief, his face unshaven, his clothes rumpled, and Isabella realized it was likely that he'd not changed in the last three days. Her heart stuttered, squeezing tight with sympathy as she saw the changes loss had wrought in him. His lips, usually smirking with mischief could barely muster the energy to lift at the corner as Edward pulled him into a fierce embrace._

_Isabella watched his half-smile freeze and then falter, before it fell from his lips and a strangled sob pushed its way out his throat._

_Squeezing Edward's shoulder, she ducked around the two men, giving them privacy in their shared grief._

_Isabella moved around Peter's house quietly, stacking the dishwasher, putting on a load of laundry, brewing a pot of coffee. She wiped the counters and brought in a load of dry clothes from the washing line. She did as much as she could to restore some semblance of order and normalcy to his life, though she couldn't bring herself to enter the bedroom. Despite the disarray she glimpsed through the open door, she couldn't bear the thought of disrupting that most sacred of spaces, where Garrett's ghost would linger most potently._

_Edward nodded when she set down two mugs of coffee for them, his green eyes burning with thankfulness. She kissed them both on the top of their heads and went to dig out the vacuum cleaner._

_When Edward found her two hours later, his eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, his face pale with exhaustion. _

"_Pete?"_

_He sighed. "He's asleep."_

"_Hey." She reached for him, and he collapsed into her embrace, his strong body seeming so fragile in her arms. "I'm here."_

"_I know." His hands rubbed up her spine and back down again. "Thank you."_

_It wasn't until they had stumbled through Isabella's front door and landed in a heap on her couch that she whispered the question, "What happened?"_

"_He, uh … he got hit by a car. He was cycling to the store and the driver went through a stop sign. He … he was wearing a helmet but –" he shook his head, trying to dislodge the images that came to mind too easily "– the injuries were just too severe. He d-died a few hours after."_

_He gathered Isabella onto his lap, his nose in her hair as he tried to push away several years of images that flashed and flickered through his mind. His profession had given him far too clear a picture of the kinds of injuries his best friend would have sustained, the pain he would have endured, the red that would have spilled over his skin, taking his life with it._

"_Isabella?"_

_She sat up straight, searching his face. "What is it?"_

"_Can I … can I stay here for a while … just until …" he trailed off, uncertainty wavering through his voice._

_Her palm found his cheek. "Of course, baby. Of course."_

* * *

_As he dressed for work two days later, Edward couldn't decide if he was relieved or terrified by the thought of returning to the paediatric ward. On one hand, he hoped the never-ending bustle and the demands that would be made for his attention would help him—even momentarily—to forget the crushing weight of loss that seemed to have taken up residence in his chest. _

_On the other, he was afraid to return to a place where Garrett's presence had so thoroughly permeated. A place where he would half-expect his friend to appear around a corner, or from behind a curtain, at any moment, his blue eyes shining with warmth, his tall form hunched over as he listened carefully to his patients and the other nurses._

_Edward was also—if he were being honest—a little uncertain of leaving Isabella's for the day. Since the phone call that had spun his world upside down and scattered the floor of his life with debris, he had barely been able to tear himself from her side long enough to shower or use the bathroom._

_She had been unfailingly patient with him, accepting his need to be as close to her as possible as he struggled with his grief. There were times he felt he just couldn't get close enough; the need to crawl inside her skin and find shelter in her care was overwhelming. _

_She had held his hand as they sat through the memorial service the previous day, had held him up with her quiet strength as his shoulders buckled under the weight of the wooden box that bore his friend's body, had stood by his side as they watched the casket disappear into the earth, sealing Garrett's absence for the duration of this life._

_She held him tight when he cried, woke him gently when he called out through his nightmares, and made love to him when words failed and all that remained was two bodies joined, the beat of two hearts syncopating, and the salt of his tears falling on her cheeks._

* * *

"It feels weird, writing things like this about myself."

He shrugs. "Is it true?"

"What do you mean?"

"Is it true? Is that what you'd do for me? Stand by me, support me, be my strength?"

I drum my fingers on the desk as I think. "I'd do my best."

He smiles and presses a kiss to my forehead. "Then it's right. Isn't that what you're supposed to do? Write honestly—authentically?"

I frown. "Well, yeah. But it's still … awkward, I guess."

He shakes his head. "People often struggle to admit their failings, their weaknesses. But it's just as hard to own your strengths, I think."

I blink, trying to process his wisdom.

"When you write … your characters need to be flawed, right?"

I nod. "Of course—they need to be real, relatable, and no one's perfect."

"Doesn't it follow, then, that they also need to have strengths?"

"Uh, yeah."

"You wouldn't have trouble writing the strengths and beauty of any other character. You have no trouble highlighting mine, for example. But you do when writing yourself. That's silly. It's not vanity, Bella. It's honesty."

* * *

_Returning to work was both easier and harder than Edward had imagined. _

_It was a chaotic evening, the air constantly rent with patients' cries and alarms and the beeping of machinery and the barking of orders. It was a relief, actually. Being busy, feeling competent, making his small difference in the handful of lives he was responsible for gave Edward a sense of satisfaction, of purpose, that steadied him._

_Finishing up in the morning, however, was when it became overwhelming, when Claire and a few other nurses asked him if he wanted to join them for a coffee after the shift, when they clucked their tongues and patted his back as he turned them down, when they exchanged sidelong glances with one another as the familiar tears began to prickle in the corners of his eyes. _

_Choking back his sorrow, Edward slid into his car and made his way home. Unlocking his silent apartment, he emptied his pockets onto the breakfast table and headed straight to his room where he collapsed onto his bed, exhaustion and grief pushing him into a deep sleep._

_When he woke, he showered and dressed, feeling strangely numb. Scrubbing his hand across his face, he wandered into the kitchen, pouring himself a bowl of cereal he had no real desire to eat. _

_The buzzing of his phone caught his attention as his spoon dragged through the soggy cereal he had yet to touch._

"_Hello?"_

"_Edward? Are you okay?" Isabella's voice was quiet, but he could hear the thread of worry laced through it._

"_Yeah. No. I don't know."_

"_You … uh, you didn't come home this morning. I, um – I was worried."_

_Edward closed his eyes, guilt causing his stomach to drop. "I'm so sorry. I just … I didn't think. I was so tired and …" He shook his head, his excuses sounded flimsy in his own ears._

"_Hey, it's okay."_

"_It's not. Not if I made you worry. I'm sorry."_

_Isabella was silent for a moment before she spoke, her voice shaded with hesitation. "I, uh, well, when you didn't come home … I mean, here … I drove past your place. I saw your car, so I … I figured you just wanted space. It's okay."_

"_It's not that," he muttered. His fingers tugged at the collar of his sweater. "I just – I didn't even think, you know? I was so overwhelmed."_

"_I understand. It's fine. Can I – I mean, is there anything you need? Do you need some time?"_

"_No." His answer was immediate and honest. "No, I don't want space. Can you – can you come and get me?"_

"_I'll be there in fifteen minutes," she promised. "Have you eaten?"_

_Edward looked at the bowl of beige mush in front of him. "No."_

"_Okay. I'll see you soon, all right?"_

"_Thanks, love."_

* * *

_Isabella was at her computer, headphones tucked into her ears when Edward returned from his shift the next morning. She looked up as he dumped his wallet and phone on her kitchen counter, along with the keys to her car. He felt the sparks that lit her eyes in his chest, the warmth of her smile radiating from his heart to his fingers and toes. _

_She tugged the buds from her ears, closing the lid of her laptop. "Hi."_

"_Hi, love." _

_He opened his arms, smiling as she immediately stood and moved into his embrace._

"_Are you okay?"_

_His cheek pressed to the top of her head, he sighed. "Yeah, I am. Or I will be."_

"_I love you."_

"_I love you, too, pretty girl."_

* * *

The words seem to come in a torrent, a downpour, and then they dry up just as suddenly. For a few days I write nothing, the words refusing to flow. Every effort I make to pin down my confusion is like trying to grab handfuls of sea mist.

And then I wake with the dawn one day, weirdly refreshed despite the insensible hours I've been keeping.

"Let's go for a walk."

He agrees, of course.

The sand is still cool, and the beach quiet in the early morning. For the first time in days I feel as though the air in my lungs is actually being dissolved into my blood—like I'm being refreshed, like I'm really breathing.

Edward laughs as I run into the water. I imagine him chasing me, splashing and kicking, until we're shoulder deep in the ocean's embrace. I let the salt water buoy my spirits, and I float, my arms spread, my toes pointing to the sky.

"Are you feeling okay?"

My hands paddle slowly, keeping me steady. "Yeah, actually."

"It's hard to write this stuff?"

I sigh, closing my eyes against the rising sun. "Yeah, it is. I mean, it always is—writing about people's suffering. I don't do it lightly. But usually, well … I mean, usually I'm better prepared."

I continue to fill the patient silence with my uncertain prattle. "Usually, I know before I even start writing what's going to happen to every character. How they get there … well, it often seems that they take that journey on their own, but I've always had a clear vision of where they'll end up, you know?"

He probably doesn't, but he squeezes my fingers so I know he hears.

"And so, you do things to prepare for it—when there's something that's going to be particularly shocking, or hard to deal with, or an especially big revelation. I start slipping in hints, foreshadowing, you know? So … I don't know … I should have written us a conversation about the fragility of life … something, anything, so that this doesn't come as such an awful shock."

"Why didn't you—this time?"

"I don't usually live my stories quite so fully." I smile, but it's twisted with sadness. "I usually have a bit more … I don't know, maybe not objectivity, but at least a little more distance. But with you …"

His lips are against my forehead, his hand stretched under my back as I continue to float over the rippling waves.

"That's exactly what I mean. You're … _real_ to me, Edward. And this story, your story … _our story_—I'm living it as I write it. So for once, I actually don't know where we heading, where we'll end up. You were never supposed to consume me so completely."

He's silent for a long time. With the sun shining on my face and the water rolling me gently, I imagine him standing beside me, one hand under my head, the other resting on the surface of the water. His eyes, the same color as the sea, are focused on the horizon, the lines of his face drawn severely as he thinks.

His voice is quiet, unsure. "Bella? Do you regret it? This? Us?"

I don't even need to think on it. "Never."

* * *

**A/N: Hi, lovelies! Thank you all so much for your continued support. It means the world.**

**I'm also super thankful for Tam, who helped me so much in getting this chapter into shape, and is also a very sweet friend. **

**Shell x**

* * *

**Also, I've posted the one-shots I wrote for the Season of Our Discontent Anonymous Angst Competition to my profile, if you want to take a squizz. **

**Unbelievably, _Lost Keys and Waning Light_ won second place in the public voting. I think I'm still in shock.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

* * *

"_We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection." Anaïs Nin_

* * *

"I don't want to go." My back arches as I slide the zip up as far as I can, before I have to hook my arm over my shoulder to close my dress the rest of the way.

"Love–"

I stamp my bare foot against the tiles on the bathroom floor, wincing as pain shoots from my heel to my knee. "I know, Edward. I know."

He sighs, and his breath is warm on my neck. "Jared's nice, Bella. And Angela and Ben will be there–"

"I said, _I know_. That means, 'I know it will end up being fine but I want to have a tantrum about it anyway,' okay?"

"Oh." He chuckles. "Well, go ahead, then."

"No." I fold my arms across my chest. "I don't want to, now. You've ruined my fit of petulance with your logical, calm caringness."

I imagine his eyebrows lift as he smiles at me. "Caringness?"

"Shakespeare made up words. Why can't I? And anyway, everyone knows that you can add 'ness' to the end of any word and it's perfectly acceptable."

"It is? Are you sure?"

"Actually, no. It completely pisses me off when other people do it." I giggle. "But at least I know I'm a hypocrite, right?"

"Yes. It's fantastic that you're aware of your hypocriteness, baby."

My nose crinkles with disgust. "Okay, you win. No more 'nessing.' I s'pose, Shakespeare's words were slightly more interesting … like _puking_ and _obscene_ and _sanctimonious_."

"So, what are you actually worried about?"

"_Assassination_. And _premeditated_ … _multitudinous_. I wish I'd invented them. Imagine going … 'assassination!' Yep, just thought it up while I was in the shower."

"Bella–"

"Good point, the English weren't exactly known for their cleanliness, huh? He probably thought it up while he was –"

"Isabella."

My mouth snaps closed.

"What are you so anxious about, sweetheart?"

I shrug, trying to shake off the nerves that are fizzing through me. "I don't know … Alice, I guess"

"Seeing her with Jasper?"

"Not at all." I shake my head. "I'm fine with them being together, you know? It's not that I–I mean, I've barely even thought of him. I don't even miss his friendship, to be completely honest. But Alice …"

I break off as I swipe some mascara over my eyelashes.

"Alice …?" He tumbles his hands to encourage me to continue.

"Alice …" I pause as I do the other eye.

"Yes?"

I cap the mascara and set it back down.

"Wait—you can't talk while you're putting that stuff on?"

"I can, too."

His chuckle is deep and vibrates through me. "No, you can't. You do this–" he opens his mouth wide as he waves his hand near his eye, miming mascara application, "–and you have to stop talking."

I regard my reflection in the mirror for a moment and unscrew the cap again. As I hold the wand to my eye, I smirk.

"Watch. I'm talking and look, I'm putting on mas– Shit!"

His laughter rings loud in my head as I regard the black smear that now stretches across my cheek.

"Note to self: I actually _can't_ talk and apply makeup." I dig through the drawer for a cleansing wipe and carefully remove the thick black paint.

He smiles, and his green eyes are bright with humor.

"Alice has changed. I told you this." I tell him, my amusement draining away. "I mean, last time I saw her—at that shop—she was this hyperactive, bouncy pain in the ass, you know? It was weird. She's different."

"Well, she and Jasper were kind of new then, right? Maybe she's settled down again, now. Maybe the novelty and new-love giddiness has worn off a little."

I wrinkle my nose at him. "Why do you have to be so logical and stuff? Stop it. Stop making me feel stupid about getting worked up!"

I smooth my hands over the bright yellow cotton of my dress, check my makeup and hair once more, and turn away from the mirror.

"Do I look okay?"

"You're beautiful."

* * *

Thankfully, Alice decided to have her farewell get-together-and-get-drunk at Sam's. It's neutral ground, and walking distance from home.

"You're not going to walk home, though. Are you?"

I sigh. "Not if I'm drunk."

"Okay, good."

Rolling my eyes, I huff a little, but I still feel a twinge of sadness as I feel him slip away when I step into the noisy bar.

"Bella! Hi!"

Angela grabs my hand, her smile already loosened by whatever she's drinking. She kisses my cheek, and the strong scent of coconut makes my eyes water. Malibu, then, I guess.

"Hi, Ange. How are you?"

A giggle bursts from between her lips. "I'm fantastic! We're having so much fun. I'm so glad you're here, though. Oh my gosh, Alice is so wrapped up in Jasper I don't even know why she bothered to invite us all."

My stomach sinks a little, and I don't know what to say. Ange doesn't seem to notice though, she's already chatting away about how happy she is to be back home and how much Ben is enjoying his job and how sweet Emily is and how funny Liam is and how the weather's been so nice she's even worn shorts for a few days.

"Look, Bea," she tells me with all the seriousness that only the tipsy can manage. "You can see my knees. I bet you've never even seen my knees before."

I laugh as she points to the pair of cut-offs that do, in fact, reveal her knees. "What are you talking about? I've never seen your knees covered! All your jeans have holes in them."

She blinks at me and giggles again. "Bitch. I'm going to buy you a drink."

"Thanks, babe," I call as she sways back towards the bar.

"Hi, Bea."

"Jasper, hi." I look around. "Where's Alice?"

His fingers pull his curls away from his face. "Bar." He jerks his head, and I spot Alice chatting to—_ugh_—Eric as they wait to be served.

"Cool. So, uh, she's looking forward to starting school again?"

He nods. "Yeah. She's really excited." His brow creases and his blue eyes focus on his shoelaces.

My teeth scrape over my bottom lip before I speak. "Are you … are you moving, too?"

He shakes his head. "Nah. I mean, I just moved back … and this–" he motions towards Alice "–is still really new, you know? We're not ready for … that. We'll just do the long distance thing for a while, see what happens."

I don't really know what to say, so I stay silent.

He shrugs, his fingers tugging at the black leather necklace that sits just above his collar. "I can't ask her to stay. This is what she wants to do with her life."

I nod, though my smile is a little bitter.

He looks up, his eyes meeting mine. "I don't think it will last."

"College?" I frown at him. "Why?"

He shakes his head, his hair bobbing with the motion. "No. Me and Alice. I, uh – well, we want different things, you know? I want–"

"J.J." I raise my hand, palm out, to stop him. "Not a conversation you should have with me."

I might as well have slapped him, so stricken does he look.

I squeeze his forearm in apology. It's just a brief moment of contact, but it feels so very strange to touch him after all this time. "Dude, you've got to talk to Alice about that. Not me. I'm sorry, but I can't. It's not my place."

"Oh."

I grab at a subject that's easier for both of us. "Hey! How's Nettie?"

"What? Uh, she'd doing good. I think." He shrugs. "She's in high school now. Can you believe it?"

"Um, yeah. I can."

"Yeah, well … she'll always be a kid to me."

I roll my eyes. "Whatever. Next time you talk to her, though, tell her I miss her."

His eyes narrow. "Do you?"

"Yeah, J.J. I do. She's a great girl, I always enjoyed her company." It takes a lot of restraint for me not to emphasize that "her."

"Huh." He scratches the back of his neck, eyes on the floor. "I always thought …"

"What? That I 'put up' with her? For your sake? For your mother and aunt's? Ugh. You can be such an ass, dude. She's a real sweetheart."

"Here you go!" Angela's voice in my ear makes me jump, and my elbow narrowly misses the glass she's holding out to me.

"I got you an Old Fashioned."

"Thanks." I take it from her before she can spill it on my dress—she's looking a little wobbly.

"I'll catch you later, Bea."

"Sure."

Jasper nods at me once before he blends into the crowd at the bar.

Angela takes a sip of her drink and pushes her glasses up on top of her head. "Alice!" she shouts. "Alice, get over here!"

* * *

I'm on my fifth—or maybe it's my seventh—Old Fashioned when Eric corners me. I've been on the move all evening, aware of him gradually circling closer, and trying to keep some distance between us. I lapsed though, when I wandered to the bar to order another drink—mostly because I was getting completely grossed out watching Jasper and Alice making out.

It's a weird thing, watching someone you've kissed a lot, kiss someone else.

"Bella-Bea!"

"Hi, Eric." I take a sip of my drink. I'm pretty sure they're getting weaker as the night goes on. That or the taste buds are gradually being scoured off my tongue by the whiskey.

"How are you, sexy?"

"Good. You?"

He chuckles. "I'm great. You're drunk."

I nod, and the room moves up and down, too. "Yep."

He clucks his tongue at me, which makes me screw my nose up. "Dude, are you my mom?"

"I fucking hope your mom doesn't think about you the way I do."

"You're gross." I sway a little, but step back as he reaches to steady me.

"Aww, Bella-Bea. You don't mean that." He smirks a little and it prickles my spine.

"I do so." I tell him. I'm aware of the fact I sound like a particularly obnoxious six-year-old, but there's sufficient alcohol flowing through me that I don't really care. "I don't like you."

My rudeness doesn't seem to faze him.

"You don't like the way I make you feel," he tells me. "You're attracted to me, but you feel threatened by my overt masculine sexuality."

I can't help it; I laugh. My giggle starts small but quickly grows into a cackle. Eric's smirk slowly falls off his face, his lips flattening and pressing tight as I cover my mouth with my hand, laughing so hard that breathing is becoming a real challenge.

"Hey, Bea."

I can't speak through the fit of laughter but I wave at Jared—well, I flap both my hands around, between the giant gulps of air I'm trying to swallow down.

He looks at Eric. "She okay?"

Eric rolls his eyes. "She's wasted."

My laughter dies in my throat, and I plant the hand that's not reaching for my glass on my hip, narrowing my eyes at the two men. "I'm also standing right here."

"I'm sorry, Bea. That was rude." Jared offers me a smile that's tinged with contrition. "Are you okay?"

"Is okay," I tell him. "And I'm fine, thank you. But I think I want to go home. I need a cab."

"Do you want a lift?"

I look between the two of them, confused. It takes my alcohol-soaked brain a moment to realize that I'm not seeing—hearing—double. They made the same offer at the same time.

I look at Jared closely, leaning toward him a little. "Have you been drinking? 'Cause friends don't let friends drive drunk cars."

He shakes his head as he chuckles. "I had one beer about an hour ago. I'm fine, and so is my car."

"Okay. Thanks." I drain my glass and set it back on the bar with perhaps slightly more enthusiasm than is necessary—two ice cubes jump out of the glass and tumble across the counter. "Ice dice! Anyway, I need to get my stuff."

Jared's hand on the small of my back doesn't faze me—it's friendly, not acquisitive—but I catch Eric's frown as Jared guides me back towards the table where I left my cardigan and bag.

"You all right?" Jared gestures over his shoulder. "He wasn't giving you a hard time, was he?"

"I'm fine. He's acting like a dick, but I can handle it."

His eyes narrow. "You sure?"

"If I wasn't in love with someone else, I'd ask you to kiss me right here so he'd fucking get the hint to fucking leave me the fuck alone."

Jared frowns, and I think it's because I might have given him the idea Eric's a stalker, when really, he's just an insecure young boy hiding behind the big talk of an egotistical douche.

He doesn't speak until we step out of the bar and into the quiet nighttime air. His voice is hushed with worry. "Bea … are you still in love with Jasper?"

I stumble a little, my heel catching on a crack in the pavement.

"What?! No!" My eyes go wide and I try to make him understand. "No, no, no. No way. Yuck. He was kissing Alice, and just … eww. He does this thing with his tongue … like–" I try to demonstrate, but it's hard by myself—especially while trying to walk in stilettos.

Jared runs a hand through his hair, a little smile curling his lips. "Yeah, okay. Eww."

"Uh-huh."

He opens the car door for me, chuckling as I fumble with the seat belt—the slot is really tiny and keeps moving away from the little metal tab thingy.

"So, who _are_ you in love with? Is it someone I know?" he teases as he climbs into the driver's seat and starts the ignition.

"It's a secret." I press my finger to my lips. "Can't tell."

His smile fades, but he nods as he pulls from the curb. "Sure. I understand."

"Do you?" I can't imagine he would. _I'm in love with this guy who lives in my head and in my words._

He tips his head, his eyes remaining fixed on the road. "Well, obviously not completely. But you're entitled to your privacy, Bea. Relationships … they're tricky. You do what you gotta do to make them work."

"Right."

Jared lets the subject fade into the night, asking me for directions to my house. Only a few minutes later, he's idling in front of my driveway.

"Thanks for the lift!"

"No problem." He grins. "I'll see you around."

"Definitely." I like Jared, he's a nice guy.

He chuckles. "Thanks, girl. You're nice, too."

"Aww, thanks! Okay. Goodnight."

" 'Night, Bea. Make sure you drink some water and find some ibuprofen, okay?"

"Sure, sure."

Shivering, I wrestle my cardigan on as I watch his taillights fade away.

Fall's chill is starting to creep in, sly and sinister. The cool breeze taunts me, twisting around my ankles like an affection-starved cat as I wend my way across the cement drive to my front door.

It takes me a few attempts to slide my key into the lock—it's even smaller than the seatbelt clasp—and then I'm inside and he is there to greet me.

He laughs. "Hey, drunky-face."

I switch off the porch light, drop my keys and bag onto the floor, and start sliding my cardigan back off. "I'd flip you off but my fingers are all fuzzy."

My cardigan lands somewhere on the floor, and I kick the sapphire-blue heels off with a clatter, leaving them in the middle of my hallway. The zip of my dress takes a bit of effort, but soon the sunshine-colored cotton is puddled in my bedroom doorway. I unclasp my bra and it falls to the floor, where my panties soon join it.

Collapsing onto my bed, I stare up at the ceiling. The walls are washed with the dim light shining from the lamp on the nightstand, shadows dancing around me as my vision blurs in and out of focus.

"Edward?"

"Mmm."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

* * *

"Bella."

His voice tugs me out of sleep only an hour or so later. Though my lamp has been left on, I can see that it's still dark outside. I can see the starlight dancing on the rippling ocean, piercing the infinite shades of inky blue that blanket the world outside my room.

I reach over, fumbling until I find the switch and plunge my room into darkness, matching it with the world beyond my windows. In the faint light from the moon and stars, my skin glows silver-grey.

"Are you here?"

"For as long as you need me."

"I need you now."

"You're still drunk, pretty girl."

The arch of my spine is mirrored in the curve of my lips and the pointing of my toes. "Are you going to take advantage of me?"

His laugh is as dark as the night, it vibrates through my gut and sets my blood thrumming in my veins. "Are you sure it's me who's taking advantage?"

I think about it—for a second. "Don't know, don't care." I roll over, searching blindly through my drawers.

My fingers close around the thing I'm searching for, and then Edward smirks at me as his hands and mouth begin to explore my skin, wandering over it, mapping its contours. He searches out the spots that make me writhe against the sheets, and forces my breath to become short, sharp gasps.

His name spills from my lips as I'm submerged, drowning in the wave of feeling that crashes over me.

"I love you, I love you."

His warmth blankets me, his arms folding around me. "I love you, too."

* * *

When I'm dragged from sleep again, there's a drummer in my head, his sticks pounding his bass beat against my brain, my eyeballs are his cymbals. The rhythm is heavy and so very loud and the throbbing of my blood makes me groan.

My mouth is stale and dry, my eyes are full of grit.

I drag myself out of bed, stumbling around until I find some ibuprofen and a cool, glass of water, and then slump into the shower.

Clean, hydrated and medicated, I collapse back into bed, only vaguely aware of his whispering chuckle as I succumb once more to sleep.

* * *

"Are you going to write?" His fingers move over my hair, catching in the sleep-induced tangles.

I groan. "Not today."

"Okay." He leaves me with a soft kiss.

* * *

When I finally sit down at my laptop three days later, I'm strangely blank. I read and reread, making little revisions here and there, sharpening images and pruning away the deadwood.

And then I'm at the end of the text, the cursor blinking blankly at me.

My eyes drift to the window, searching.

Though it's overcast today, grey clouds blanketing the sky and dulling the ocean's surface, my eyes have to squint against the glare.

_Where do I take us—them? How do I move us past tragedy and onwards? What comes next?_

I tap my fingers against the table a few times before they move their staccato beat to the keys and words start to spin across my screen again.

* * *

_In the line of duty, Edward had watched too many couples and families forced into dealing with tragedy. He'd watched close-knit families cling to each other and pull themselves through the most difficult of times, and he'd also seen fragile, shaky relationships splinter as the reality of loss and illness pushed them to their breaking point._

_And yet, he'd also seen the closest, most affectionate and devoted of couples torn asunder by the strain of caring for a gravely ill child, while a new or fractured relationship that he assumed would buckle under the pressure would somehow be forged with renewed strength in the face of pain. _

_Tragedy was the great touchstone, he thought. The fire of suffering was the great purifier—the peripheral, the insignificant was smelted away like dross from silver. Sometimes relationships were consumed in the fiery trials, but where they survived, they were wrought stronger, purer, truer. _

_He looked at the girl sleeping beside him, her arms curled under her pillow, the comforter tucked around her shoulders. Even with the melancholy fogging his mind, his lips twitched with an adoring smile as she rolled toward him, her arm flung out as she unconsciously searched for him. _

_Her fingers found his tee-shirt and curled into it, stretching the fabric as she unconsciously tried to pull him closer. Edward shifted his weight carefully, moving closer, and Isabella sighed contentedly in her sleep as she fit her body against his. _

_He touched her sleep-warm face, her fair skin pearlescent in the moonlight that was seeping through the cracks in the drawn curtains. _

She's amazing_, he thought._

_When Edward was lost in depths of his grief, it had been Isabella who had held them both up, who had carried him as he oscillated between sadness and anger, disbelief and acceptance. It had been Isabella who held him as he wept and then listened with a patient smile as he sorted through his memories of Garrett. She had given him space when he needed it, but forced him to talk when he was getting lost in his own mind. She had been patient and supportive, without letting him trample over her, without allowing him to neglect her own need for comfort and affection. _

_And as the weeks passed, each day got that little bit easier to get through, each unbidden memory stung a little less. He found himself able to smile as he recalled a story that Garrett had told, or a prank his friend had pulled, or imagined the smart-assed comment and blue-eyed twinkle that a particular situation would have elicited._

_As Edward found himself able to look forward, to contemplate the future once again, he knew there were many uncertainties in life. Life itself was uncertain, fragile and fleeting. _

_However, there was one thing he could not doubt—whatever his future looked like, however much time he had been allotted—he wanted it to include Isabella._

_He had known for a long time now that he loved her, he had fallen hard and fast and whole-heartedly. And now, as they emerged through the dark place of loss, bruised and aching but clinging to each other, he was convinced, that having weathered this kind of storm so early in their relationship, nothing would be able to dissolve the bonds of love that bound them so tightly together._

_This confidence gave him peace, even as he still wrestled with living each day in his best friend's absence. They were partners, a team; complementary, their whole greater than the sum of their parts. _

_Edward yawned into the crook of his arm, the darkness seeming to intensify as his eyes grew heavy. With a smile, he pressed his lips to Isabella's cheek, inhaling the familiar scent of her skin, and let her warmth guide him back into a dreamless slumber._

* * *

"What about Pete?"

My fingers move to my temples, guilt weighing on me. "Yeah, I know. I was just thinking about that. I just … I don't know how to write it. I don't know how to write for him and stick to the third person limited. I need to be as true to the style as I do to the story."

I imagine him stretching his neck muscles out as he thinks, his eyes half-closed. "He'd take some time off, right?"

"I would imagine so."

"And his family, they'd come and stay with him for a while?"

"Definitely."

"Maybe … you can be in my head, yes? So maybe he could come back to work, in time? Or, uh, I could go visit him?"

I nod, grabbing a pen and jotting his suggestions on a scrap of paper. "Okay. That could work." I blow out a breath. "It's hard, you know? I want to do his loss justice, I don't want to brush him under the carpet—his story, his hurt—he matters. But I also can't lose the focus in the story. Somehow I have to walk that fine line."

"I understand." He squeezes my shoulder. "Let's go for a walk, let the sea breeze clear your mind."

I agree, barely remembering to save my work before I'm heading out of the house and onto the sand.

The wind has arrived with the late afternoon. It whistles along the sand, tugging at the hem of my dress and lifting the sand to bite my ankles. It skims across the surface of the water, raising white caps and flattening out the waves. It's not lifting high enough, however, to blow away the cloud cover. The beach is still blanketed in a dull grey that leeches the vibrancy from the scene that stretches out before me.

It's warm, and the humidity that comes with the threatening rain is oppressive. My skin dampens with sweat as I half-run along the shore. I can feel my cheeks grow pink with exertion, even veering into the water and splashing through the whitewash does little to cool me down or calm my racing heart.

I've reached the end of the half-moon-shaped stretch of sand when the rain starts to fall. Fat, heavy drop start to fall, spattering my face and shoulders. Each drop shocks me, sending Doppler-like waves of sensation across my skin, aftershocks rushing from the epicenter.

"That was well timed," he chuckles. I can barely hear him over the smack of raindrops against my face.

I shrug. "Not what you meant by 'clearing my mind?'"

"Not exactly." I can feel his gaze drag across my chest. "White cotton and no bra. _Fuck_."

My body responds to his eyes on me, and the husky tone lacing his voice, making my lingerie-free state even more obvious. "Don't."

"Don't what?" His smirk is wicked, his green eyes vibrant against the grey.

"Don't do this to me now. Don't get me worked up when you can't—when I can't—follow through."

His smirk fades, his eyes cast down. I imagine the flutter of long, dark lashes against his cheek. He whispers, "Sorry."

I pass a few other stragglers who have been caught in the rain, folding my arms across my chest as we share wry smiles. Unlike me, most are moving quickly, trying to get out of the weather. I see no point in hurrying home. My clothes are soaked through, and though the wind on my wet skin is raising goose bumps, I'm lit with warmth from within.

When I do draw level with my house, I don't start towards it immediately. I linger in the shallows, the whitewash curling around my knees. The rain is still falling, and rivulets of water are trailing from my hair and down my face. I lick my lips, tasting the fresh water.

"Are you okay, love?"

"I will be."

* * *

As night falls, the wind picks up, and the rain starts battering at my windows. The steady rhythm is a counterpoint to the clatter of my fingers over keys as the words finally begin to flow across the screen again.

* * *

"_Edward?" _

_Hearing the note of concern in Claire's voice, Edward looked up immediately, the notes he was scrawling forgotten. "What's up?"_

"_Pete's here."_

_He glanced at his watch, twisting it around on his wrist until he could read the time. "He's really early." After three months' leave, Peter was returning to the ward—though he wasn't due to start for another hour._

_Claire nodded. "I suspect he's anxious, hon."_

"_Of course." Edward's stomach was no longer in his middle; it seemed to have fallen to his toes. "Can you–" He waved at the notes in front of him._

"_Sure. You go. See how he's coping."_

_Edward squeezed the older woman's shoulder as he stepped around the nurse's station. "Thanks, Claire."_

_He found Peter sitting in the break room, his dark eyes vacant as he stared out the window. His scrubs were slightly wrinkled, like they'd been shoved in a draw for too long—which was probably the case, actually._

_Edward was silent as he folded himself into the chair beside his friend. He knew he should say something, offer Pete some word of comfort, some encouragement, but words failed him. _Maybe Isabella would know_, he thought. _But I haven't a clue what to say to make this easier on him.

"_Is it weird that I can feel him here?" Pete's voice was scratchy and unsure, like he expected Edward's laughter or derision._

"_No. Not at all."_

"_As soon as I walked in … I expected to see him. I expected to hear him—laughing or doing some stupid voice to make a kid smile. Or trying to sweet talk Claire into filing his paperwork or something."_

_Edward's lips twitched. "The, uh … the first few days, I kept expecting to see him around every corner, or I don't know, getting tangled in a cubicle curtain."_

_Pete chuckled. "You know, I never figured out if he was just stupidly uncoordinated, or if that was part of the act for the kids' sake."_

"_Probably both."_

_Silence stretched between the two men, though it wasn't uncomfortable. In fact, their lips were curving with matching smiles, and fondness and nostalgia was almost a palpable cushion surrounding them._

"_Does it fade?"_

_Edward sighed. "Yes and no."_

_Pete looked at him, his near-black eyes searching. Edward wasn't sure if he was looking for honesty or hope, but he gave him what he could._

"_I can only speak for me. But … it doesn't hurt quite so much, now. At first, something would happen and I'd imagine his reaction, and then it'd be like someone had detonated a bomb in my guts. Blown a hole clean through me. But then, it just started to hurt a little less. Sometimes it would even make me smile. Like, Claire had this little one in here the other night with an exploding diaper. Seriously, I haven't seen anything like it, and I've seen a lot. Shit was fucking everywhere. It was disgusting. And all I could think about was the face Gar pulled when he had to change a diaper. You know?"_

_Pete smiled, and then his features twisted, his expression became one of disgust and dismay, his jaw slack, his nostrils flaring._

"_Yeah. That one." Edward chuckled softly, then sighed. His lips pursed as he hesitated, but then he pushed the words out in a nervous rush. "You knew him better, Pete, but I think he'd want us to be able to laugh. And laughing doesn't mean we're forgetting or we don't care, it means we're remembering, celebrating."_

_He looked at his hands, his fists clenching tight. He was worried he was pushing things too far, too fast. Maybe Pete wasn't yet in that place, maybe he wasn't ready to laugh._

"_You're right. He _would_ want us to laugh. Fucking performer." _

_Edward felt Pete's hand land on his shoulder, his fingers flexing in reassurance. _

"_Thanks, brother."_

_Edward nodded. "Just … let me or Claire know if it gets too much, okay? Don't feel you have to—I mean, it's all right if it takes time to get used to being back here, if you need to take a breather, or tap out if it all gets overwhelming. We understand."_

_Pete squeezed his shoulder again. "I know. And thank you."_

* * *

_Isabella was sitting on her front porch when Edward pulled up in her drive, her fingers curled around a mug of coffee. He watched as she yawned, smiling as the way her lower jaw pushed slightly to the left. Her yawns weren't a perfect _O_ and it had enchanted him from the first time he noticed it._

"_Good morning."_

_She smiled at his greeting, patting the step beside her. "Morning."_

_As soon as Edward sat down, she leaned into his shoulder, not minding the slightly stale smell of sweat and antiseptic that clung to his scrubs. His arm slipped behind her, his fingers curling around her belt loop._

"_Pete worked today?"_

_He nodded. "Yeah. He was arguing with a kid about the merits of those Japanese comic things as form of literature when I left."_

"_Manga?"_

_Edward's eyebrows lifted. "I'm not sure. Maybe."_

_Isabella snickered. "Well, that's a good thing, right?"_

"_I wouldn't have a clue. Books and literature are your department."_

"_No, silly." She pushed his hair out of his eyes and kissed his scruff-scratchy cheek. "Pete. Being at work, arguing with kids and stuff."_

"_Oh. _Oh._ Yeah, he coped really well. I think … well, I think being back actually helped him, you know? I mean, we were swamped all night, so he was kept pretty busy. He seemed okay." _

_Edward frowned and slipped his cell phone from his pocket. He sent his friend a quick text, reminding him that he was available should Pete want to debrief, or if he just need some company._

"_Why don't you bring him home for brunch after work tomorrow?"_

_Edward murmured his agreement, and added the invitation to his message before he pressed 'send.' _

_He slid the device back into his pocket and looked up, something unfathomable in his eyes as they locked with Isabella's. "Home?"_

_She tucked her head against his shoulder, hiding from his piercing green gaze. "Um, maybe?" Her voice was higher than usual, uncertainty raising the pitch._

_He tugged on her wrists, forcing her to sit up straight and meet his eyes. His fingers traced her hairline, tucking some stray curls behind her ear. "Tell me what you're thinking?"_

_Isabella was silent for so long, he began to wonder if she intended to answer._

"_Pretty girl?"_

_Her eyes squeezed tight. "Move in with me?"_

_Edward's heart picked up its pace, the thump-thump going double time, and the butterfly things unfurled their wings in his stomach. "Okay." His lips stretched with a smile so big the apples of his cheeks pushed his eyes into a squint._

_Isabella's eyes flew open, and her breath hitched. "Okay?"_

_He nodded, still grinning. "Of course, love. You, uh, you might not have noticed but I haven't slept in my apartment for close to a month now."_

"_Oh."_

_He chuckled. "I love you. I'm in this—with you—for as long as you want me. Of course I want to live with you. Of course I want that permanence." He sighed, his smile falling a little. "If I've learned anything in the last three months, sweetheart … Life is too fragile, it's torn away from us too easily. I love you. I want to be with you. Of course I'll move in. I mean, unless you'd rather move into my apartment, but I'm assuming you'd hate having to drive to the beach?"_

_Isabella pressed her lips together, unsuccessfully trying to control the smile that was lighting her whole face. "That would be ridiculous. This place is twice the size of your flat, and you're right, having to drive to the beach would be insufferable."_

_Edward chuckled and pulled her close, his lips seeking out hers. Their kiss was awkward, smile against smile, lips stretched wide and teeth clinking._

_Isabella put her hand on his chest, pushing him back, her dark eyes suddenly serious. "You know I'm kidding, right? I would totally put up with being away from the ocean if it meant being with you."_

_Edward shook his head, his eyes flashing fired-copper bright. "You really do love me."_

"_I really do."_

* * *

**A/N: Wishing you all the happiest of holidays!**

**For those of you for whom this time of year is the hardest, the saddest, the loneliest - my thoughts are with you.**

**Hugest of huge thanks to Tam, who is my favourite colour, the sun on my face, and the sweetest friend ever.**

**Shell x**


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

* * *

"_There comes a time when you have to choose between turning the page or closing the book." Unknown._

* * *

_Bzzzzt-bzzzzt. Bzzzzt-bzzzzt._

I frown at my cell phone, trying to decide if I want to answer it. _Why is he calling me?_

Curiosity wins out over lingering annoyance.

"Hello?"

"Isabella?"

The voice isn't right. Instead of Jasper's familiar tones, this voice is girlish and young—and definitely not Alice's.

"Speaking."

"Uh, hi. Um, it's Nett– it's Antoinette."

"Oh, Nettie! Hi, sweetie. How are you?"

I can hear the smile in her sweet voice. "I'm well, thank you. How are you?"

"I'm great. Gosh, it's been so long. I bet you're taller than me by now."

She laughs, and there's a slight raspy tone to it. "Actually, yeah. I probably am. I'm five-seven, now."

"No way! I'm jealous, girlie."

"It has its disadvantages." There's a bitterness in her words that I hate. I hate that at—what, fourteen?—she's developed hang-ups about her body. "I'm taller than nearly all of the guys in my classes, so yeah …"

I sigh as she trails off, her unspoken words adding to the sadness that's tugging at me: _so yeah, I get teased for being different … so yeah, no guy will kiss a girl who's taller than he is … so yeah, my "friends" don't let me forget it …_

"Girls grow faster, generally." I offer. "The boys will catch up and pass you soon enough."

"Yeah, I know. But until then, I'm the freak."

"Nettie. You are not a freak. Please, don't say that. I know you'd never call anyone else that, so don't use it on yourself."

She's quiet for a moment. "Thanks, Isabella."

"If you're using J.J.'s phone, is he visiting your aunt, or are you in town?"

"Oh. Yeah, that's why I called, actually. He's here for the weekend. But next weekend, Mom and Aunt Charlotte and I are coming up there to visit him. They want to meet his new girlfriend before she moves away. And uh, they're all going out for dinner and stuff. I don't really want to go, but they won't let me stay home by myself. And J.J. said you asked about me … and I …"

"You want me to come over and hangout?"

"Well, um–" the words spill out "–I was wondering if I could come over? If you're not busy, that is. I mean, I know it's kinda short notice, and you probably have plans. And that's–"

"Nettie?"

"Uh, yeah?" I can almost hear her blush.

"I'm not busy. And you're welcome to come here. I'd love to catch up."

"Really?" The surprise in her voice hurts a little.

My eyes flicker to the book that is sitting beside my laptop, its blue-green cover art is vibrant against the desk. "Of course, chickie. I've missed you, you know?"

Her voice is small. "I've missed you, too."

"Well, is dinner on Saturday night?"

"Yeah."

"'kay. I don't know how your Mom will feel about it, but you're welcome to my spare bed if you want to sleep here. If they're planning a really late night or whatever."

"Oh. Um, I'd really like that. But, um, yeah, I'll have to check with her."

"No problem." I bite my tongue on the sarcastic promise I'm about to make about not giving her pot or booze while she's in my care. "Just let me know. I don't have any plans, so come over any time. And bring your board and your swimsuit."

There's a smile on my face as I throw my cell phone down. I open the cover of the book and grab a pen, hesitating for a moment before I scrawl a short message on the inside of the front cover.

* * *

Stretched out on the sand, the weakening sun is slow to warm my skin. My hands shield my eyes as I seek out the black and grey figure behind the breaking waves. Wetsuit-clad, the cooling water poses no hindrance to Nettie as she perches on her board, waiting for the next wave.

"She's good."

My smile stretches across my lips, lazy like the sunshine. "This is dangerous."

He kisses my temple. "You know I'll be gone as soon as she hits the sand."

I don't argue, because I want him here. I want him, reclining here beside me, summer-browned skin against the blond sand, his kisses warming my skin more effectively than the almost-fall sun.

Hand shielding his eyes, he pushes himself up onto an elbow, watching intently as Nettie drops onto her stomach and begins to paddle. Her arms cut through the water powerfully—despite her slight, willowy frame, she is all sinewy strength.

"She's a natural," he murmurs, watching as she pushes to her feet, the muscles in her legs directing the fiberglass and foam across the face of the wave. She swishes back and forth, the board a natural extension of her body as she is propelled towards the shore. The swell starts to smooth out and her knees bend deeper, her thigh muscles bouncing the board as she pushes herself through the whitewash.

Nettie bails off her board, and its only a matter of seconds before she's prone on the deck again, paddling back out, duck-diving under the breaking waves.

"She loves it," he adds. "She's at home out there."

I nod. "I know. She's a little fish."

"Or a mermaid," he suggests, his grin sly.

I laugh. "Touché."

True to his word, when Nettie emerges from the surf, board under her arm, her blonde hair tangled and salt-water heavy, a brilliant smile lighting her face, Edward is gone. He takes the sun with him, grey clouds rolling in from offshore, darkening the afternoon.

* * *

Nettie looks at the book I've placed in her hands, her blue eyes wide, her pretty pink lips parted in surprise.

"Wow. Are you sure?" Her voice is breathy with uncertainty and wonder.

"Of course."

Her freckled cheeks lift with a smile. "Thanks so–" she stops as she opens the cover and sees my handwriting scrawled across the page.

Her brows crease, her lips moving as she reads my inscription. When she looks up, she searches my face. I'm not sure what she's looking for, but she seems to find it, her smile dawning like the sunrise.

She shocks the hell out of me then, tossing the book on the couch beside her, jumping to her feet and throwing her arms around me. "Thank you."

I pat her back gently. Our mismatched heights means her cheek rests against my temple as her thin arms circle my shoulders. "You're so welcome, Nettie."

I pull back, and I can feel my cheeks flush with heat. "I, uh – well, I requested one change from this." I indicate the book on the couch. "Well, actually I caught a few typos, too, but … yeah." I shake my head, the nerves that are fluttering in my belly surprise me.

"That's like a – a practice copy, I guess. It's called an ARC, an advanced reading copy. They send them out to people who will hopefully say good things about it: people who review books for magazines and newspapers, bloggers and stuff. Then when they print the real book, they'll put some of those hopefully-nice words—preferably from well-known people—on the cover … stuff like that."

I blow out a breath. "Anyway, I asked my editor to make sure it was dedicated to you."

Nettie pulls away and sits down heavily. She opens the book, looking from the book and back at me several times.

When she speaks, her voice is squeaky. "This–" she indicates my note "–is going to be in _all _of the books?"

"Um, not exactly." I look away, itching my nose. "It will just say, _For Nettie. _That–" I wave in her direction "–is just for you. That's … private."

"Wow." She looks a little shell-shocked, and my heart pitter-patters faster.

"Is that—is that okay?" I'm suddenly unsure about my decision. I wonder if I should've talked to her before I requested Jake make the change.

"Are you kidding?" Her smile blooms even brighter. "You dedicated a fuc– shoot. You dedicated a book to me?! That's like–" she shakes her head "–amazing. Thank you. Thank you so much."

My smile tastes like relief. "You're welcome."

"I can't wait to read it!" She grins up at me.

"Well, I expect an honest review, okay? No being nice, I want your truthful opinion."

She giggles. "Sure, sure."

"Anyway. Are you ready for some dinner?"

"Okay."

I glance at the book as she sets it down almost reverently. _Under the Frangipani Tree_ is swirled in white cursive across sea-blue cover, a mermaid's shimmery tail is disappearing from view in the top left hand corner, and my name is bold and yellow across the base. The card stock is no longer smooth, however, the ballpoint pen with which I wrote my note has left an imprint.

* * *

Hours later, when Nettie has stumbled into the spare bedroom, the root beer and candies we consumed after dinner finally releasing us from their giggly grip, he settles beside me in bed, his fingers linking through mine.

"Good night, love?"

I yawn, my free hand covering my mouth. "Yeah, it was really good fun."

He chuckles. "I gathered as much. The non-stop giggling was a giveaway."

I hum a little, burrowing deeper into my covers.

"Bella? What did you write? In the book?"

"For Nettie?"

"Yeah."

"I wrote: _For Nettie. Because she can do anything she sets her mind to, and be whomever she wants to be. Because there is an amazing life at her feet, and she can choose whichever path she wants to walk_."

"That's really nice."

I grunt, the shrug of my shoulders dislodging my comforter. "It's true."

"Can I ask you something else?"

"You're in my head, Edward. I imagine you will, regardless of whether I want you to."

His laughter whispers around me, raising goose bumps on my skin. "Fair enough. But … I mean, having Nettie here … do you want kids? I mean, not right now, of course. But eventually?"

I want to shrug the question off, bounce it away with the rise of my shoulders, but for some reason he always compels an honest answer. "Not right now."

"Eventually? I guess." I pause, thinking. "Honestly? I think it depends on a lot of things. But one of those things is who would be their father, you know? I'd like to be a mom, yes. But only if I find a guy … someone I wanted to raise my children with."

He is silent for so long that I wonder if I've somehow lost him. But then I feel his lips against my hair, and his whispered, "I love you," and I let the tiredness that weighs my limbs down drag me into sleep.

* * *

"Thanks so much for babysitting Antoinette, Isabella."

I catch Nettie's scowl and I wink at her.

"I wasn't babysitting, Lucia. We were just hanging out. It was fun."

Lucia's eyes narrow just a little, like she thinks I might be challenging her, or making fun of her, but she doesn't want to say anything in case I'm not.

"Antoinette, are you ready to go?"

Nettie nods, slinging her bag over her shoulder and her board under her arm. "Thanks again, Bella."

"Anytime. Really." I kiss her cheek and ruffle her sun-whitened hair.

I stand in my open door, smiling as I watch her strap her board to the roof racks of her Mom's Lexus. Her fingers move with practiced ease as she ties it down securely, tugging at it to check for any movement.

Throwing her bag in the trunk, she hesitates, then spins on her heel and launches herself at me.

"Thank you. Again."

I laugh, but squeeze her tighter. "Keep in touch, okay?"

"I will."

"And I want to hear your thought on the book, okay? Honest ones. If it sucks, I want you to tell me the truth."

She nods, pulling away. She takes a step back, her smile still wide. "It's not going to be crap. But I'll email, or call, I promise."

"Good." I catch her mother's pursed lips and raised brow through the tinted window of the SUV. "You better go, girlie."

"Yeah, I know."

With a smile and a wave, she climbs into the passenger seat.

I sigh, sinking into the arms that wrap around me as the Lexus pulls out of my driveway. "Hey, you."

"Hi."

We make our way inside, his arm across my shoulders.

"So, what are your plans for the afternoon?" There's a suggestive note in his voice, an undertone that sparks my arousal. "Will you write something sexy?"

"I hadn't planned on it," I admit. "I was aiming for sweet."

I can almost see his pout.

"I suppose I could try for both."

"I like that idea."

I roll my eyes, but pull my laptop onto my lap, its humming warmth seeping through my long skirt and into my thighs.

* * *

"_Well, I think that's everything." Edward frowned, counting the boxes he had lined up just inside Isabella's—_their_—front door. "Yeah. They're all here. Except for the ones that can just stay in the garage."_

_Isabella smiled, gathering up the wisps of hair that were sticking to her skin and retying her ponytail. "Great. So, these three to the bedroom?" She pointed her toes towards the boxes on the left._

"_Yep."_

_Having lived with James for two years, Isabella thought she had a pretty good handle on cohabitating. She had anticipated the patience that would be required as two people, who were used to living on their own, learned each other's routines and peculiarities, negotiated over which end of the toothpaste should be squeezed, and divided the chores that, tragically, just had to be performed to keep a house clean and functioning._

_What she hadn't anticipated were the small joys—the little things that put a huge smile on her face and caused her heart to swell until she felt like there wasn't enough room for it inside her ribcage. _

_Seeing Edward's underwear fluttering beside her panties on the clothesline. His keys dangling from the hook by the front door. The smell of man and soap and shaving foam that still saturated the air in her bathroom hours after he had left for work. _

_She had also learned a number of new things about him as they unpacked his life and fit it into hers—or more correctly, as they plaited their lives together._

"_You play the trumpet?" _

_Edward nodded. "Yeah. Since I was really small." He smiled as Isabella looked between his face and the hard black case she had snapped open, her eyes wide. _

"_Why did I not know this?"_

_He shrugged, chuckling a little. "Probably because it's been months since I touched it last." His smile twisted with suggestion. "To be honest, pretty girl, I can think of much more interesting uses for my lips."_

_She blinked, her cheeks flushing as her gaze fixed upon the lips in question. "Yeah." Shaking her head of the memories jostling one another in her mind, she looked back down at the open case._

"_Will you, um, please?" She held the case out towards him._

_Edward sighed, but nodded, sitting up straighter and crossing his long legs like a kindergartener might. "It's been a while." He pulled the pieces of burnished metal from the case, fitting them together with the competence that only comes with time and repetition._

_He put the mouthpiece to his lips, blowing a few notes and grimacing. "Don't expect too much, okay?"_

_After a few more experimental trills and scales, he shook his head, closed his eyes and began to play._

_The piece he played was plaintive, the notes hanging mournfully in the air and creating a tightness in Isabella's chest. She was torn between wanting to close her eyes and be transported by the music Edward was playing, and being unable to tear her eyes from him._

_It was a new side of him; another piece in the Edward puzzle, another facet of the whole that she loved. Seeing him lost in the melody that was slipping from the horn, his fingers dancing up and down on the valves with such measured precision, thrilled her. She didn't quite understand it. Having grown up surrounded by her father's music, Isabella wasn't sure what was so different about seeing Edward play, hearing his trumpet's wails fill her—their—house. _

_Perhaps it was the flutter of discovery. She had never known her father without his music, whereas she was just uncovering Edward's talent now. And despite the occasional faltering note, it was clear that he was a gifted musician. His playing wasn't perfect by any means, but it had a depth and passion to it. Like the notes were coming from somewhere deeper than the breath of his lungs, were being controlled by more than his fingertips._

_She smiled as the final, wailing notes wavered and faded, the silence filling the room became heavier, almost volatile with the sounds of two sets of lungs breathing deep._

"_That was beautiful." Her voice seemed harsh in her own ears. "What was that piece?"_

"_Blue on Green." Edward began dismantling the instrument, cleaning the pieces carefully as he tucked them back into the crimson fabric lining the case._

"_Thank you, so much."_

_His head snapped up at her softly spoken words, the confusion in his green eyes quickly morphing as he caught up with her._

"_Come here." He opened his arms, and Isabella crawled into his lap, her legs wrapping around his hips. _

_Her hands on his cheeks, her eyes on his lips, she spoke the words he would never tire of hearing. "I love you."_

"_I love you, too."_

_His lips met hers then, and soft kisses quickly became harder and needier. Hips began their push and pull, and hands wandered under shirt hems to seek out soft skin. His mouth fused to hers, Edward's fingers moved quickly down the row of buttons that sealed Isabella's blouse. He pushed the gauzy cotton off her shoulders, and sought out the clasp of her bra, leaving her to untangle her arms from the long sleeves. Once undone, he pulled the cups of her bra down, again, too impatient to remove it properly before his thumbs found her nipples and began to tease. _

"_Edward."_

_The only answer her plea received was a groan as Edward broke their kiss and trailed his lips down her throat before they closed over a nipple, his tongue flicking across it as it hardened. Isabella gasped, her back arching toward him with a wordless demand: _more_._

_Edward chuckled against her hot skin, but pulled back, his eyes dancing as she whimpered her complaint. Reaching behind him, her grabbed the back of his sweater and pulled both it and the tee-shirt he was wearing underneath over his head. He tossed the clothes to the floor, goose bumps forming on his skin as Isabella's fingers traced up his arms and over his shoulders. Her lips moved to his neck, kissing and tasting as her hips continued to rock in his lap._

"_Isabella?"_

"_Mmm." Her teeth found his earlobe and tugged. _

"Fuck_." _

"_Yes."_

_He shoved her out of his lap with just enough restraint to keep her from falling, before scrambling to his feet and pulling her after him. _

_His jeans and underwear were discarded with a few hops and stumbles, Isabella's skirt, stockings and panties joining them in a strange breadcrumb-trail from the living room to their bedroom. _

_Edward collapsed on the bed, scooting backwards until his head hit the pillows. Isabella followed, crawling over him and perching on his abdomen. His fingers grasped the curves of her ass as he slide her backwards a fraction and bucked his hips._

"_Oh." Her head tipped back, and his fingers reclaimed her breasts, grasping and squeezing, pushing them together as she continued to rock against him._

"_Isabella." _

_A frustrated grunt escaped her as his hands left her breasts and trailed down her sides until they gripped the back of her thighs._

"_Baby. Come here." He pulled her towards him._

_Isabella hesitated, her mind trying to catch up with her body. _

_Edward squeezed her thighs again. "Come on."_

_She complied, crawling over him until her knees rested on either side of his head. His mouth between her thighs, curses spilling from her lips as her hands hit the wall in front of her, her sense of balance obliterated by the demands his tongue was making of her body. _

_She could do little more than rest her palms against the plasterboard as incoherent cries and moans ripped their way up her throat. She swayed as her climax shook through her, Edward's hands gripping her thighs the only thing that prevented her from collapsing and falling off the bed._

_Before she had recovered her sense of equilibrium, the aftershocks still pinging through her veins, strong hands were moving her again, and then Edward filled her, his hips bucking up against her as he grunted in satisfaction. _

"_Oh, fuck." She tried to steady herself with her hands on his chest, but her elbows buckled as residual pleasure blended with more sensation and sparks continued to fly, hot and fizzy, through her. _

_Edward's self-satisfied chuckle became a groan as Isabella gathered her wits, and straightened her spine. She began to rock over him, slow and teasing, her hips rotating then moving back and forth with no discernable pattern. Unable to find a rhythm, the muscles in his body tensed until he snapped like an elastic band stretched too far. _

_Rolling them over, his hands found the headboard, giving him the leverage he needed to set the pounding rhythm his body was craving. Isabella's head lolled from side to side, the breath pushed from her lungs with each thrust. _

"_Are you–"_

_She shook her head. "No."_

"_Sure?" His hips swiveled, his pelvis grinding in just the right place to have her back arching—daring her to reconsider._

"_Ungh … Y–your turn."_

_He nodded, his rhythm faltering as his hands dropped back to the bed, his elbows framing her face. He dipped his head and kissed her softly, his strokes becoming slower and deeper. With her name on his lips, her taste on his tongue, Edward surrendered, his orgasm pulsing through him almost violently._

_When the fog cleared from her brain and her limbs no longer felt as though they had been liquefied, Isabella began to squirm beneath the heavy body pinning her to the bed. "You're smooshing me."_

_Muttering something, Edward rolled to the side, his expression dazed as he blinked, trying to focus on the red-cheeked, sweaty-faced girl beside him._

_She smiled, her hand cupping his cheek, which was also damp from exertion. _

"_Hey." His voice was low and rough. "You okay?"_

"_Of course." She sat up, and wriggled off the bed. "I'm just going to–" she flapped a hand in the direction of the bathroom._

_Edward nodded and then sighed—a deep exhale that was followed by a quiet "ahhh" that made Isabella snicker as she padded across the bedroom. _

_By them time she had finished in the bathroom, Edward was sound asleep, his left arm covering his eyes. Isabella crawled in beside him, pulling the covers up over them both, and tumbled after him into a contented sleep._

* * *

As September unfolds and gives way to October, the sun starts to lose even more of its heat, the wind gathers its chill from the north, and the days become shorter. It's too cold to swim. The ocean's embrace becomes cool and scornful, like a jilted lover, as the sun turns her face away.

Edward's warmth is harder to find as the summer steals away, and the words slip from between my fingers like sand trickling away.

I spend more time reading over the things I've already written than I do writing new scenes.

Edward finds me as I re-read first I love yous, my lips curving upwards and my heart fluttering in its cage. His smile has lost none of its warmth as fall encroaches.

"Feeling nostalgic?"

"Yeah, I guess."

Little kisses land on my cheek, my temple, my hair, butterfly wings against my skin.

"Pretty girl, we need to talk." There's trepidation in his tone. He's worried, but not for himself.

I close my laptop and move to the living room. Sitting on the couch, I pull a cushion into my lap, like it can shield me, like it can lessen the impact of the words waiting to push their way past his lips.

He takes my hand in both of his, his fingers ghosting circles over my palm. And then he speaks the words that steal away my breath and my hope. "Bella, love. You can't keep me."

I shake my head, like I can make his words untrue, like I can make him unsay them. "No."

"Hey, hey. It's okay."

"It's not. It's not okay." There's a sob stuck in my throat, it's hard to force the words past it. "How could it be okay? I love you."

His sigh fans across my cheeks, as warm and familiar as a summer breeze.

"Love, you have to let me go. Or, you have to let me let you go."

"I don't want to."

"I know." And the pain that cracks his voice tells me he does. "But it's time. You need to let go, and you need to live."

"I don't – I don't want to lose you, Edward."

"I know, love. But you can't keep me."

I know he's right. Of course he is. It's … unhealthy. My head knows this. I can't keep living with my imaginary lover, not forever. His ghostly arms and invisible affection, they can't sustain me.

But my heart—it belongs to him. He may be a figment of my imagination, he may be as insubstantial as the sea mist, but my love for him—that is real. And so is the pain that is splintering my heart and pushing burning tears into the corners of my eyes.

"Why can't–" I suck in a strangled breath and finally let the words escape. "Why can't you be real?"

Hot tears drip down my cheeks, and his arms fold around me, gathering me into his warmth.

"There's no answer to that question, Bella. The only truth is that I'm not."

"So I _am_ crazy?"

"You know you're not."

Sniffling, I say nothing as his lips trace my hairline.

"You have to let me go, though. You're too vibrant, too real, to stay locked in your head with me. You need to live, baby. You need to live your life. Real life. You need to take risks and experience everything you possibly can."

"But–"

"I know. It's terrifying. You might get hurt. But, sweetheart, you've got to take that chance. It's living, it's life. It's true, real, amazing life—with all its sorrow and heartache, all its joy and its craziness, and everything in between."

My eyes close and I let myself melt into his arms.

He speaks in my ear, low and earnest. "Yes, it might hurt. It will be hard. But you'll fall down and pick yourself up again. And it will all be worth it. You need to live a gloriously imperfect, authentic life. And I'm holding you back from doing that."

I wipe my cheeks on the shoulders on my cardigan. "But, I love you." I don't know if I'm questioning my sanity, or pleading with him to stay—both, perhaps.

"I love you, too. And that's why you've got to do this. Write us our happy ending; write us off into the metaphorical sunset. Write that I'll love you forever."

* * *

What does a happy ending look like? What does "and they all lived happily ever after" mean? What happens when this sunset we're riding off into sinks below the horizon?

Is it growing old together? Do I write us right until our last breaths? Every up and down, every obstacle we overcome, every moment of joy? Do I write us grey-haired and wrinkly-skinned, sitting on a porch somewhere, the gold of the autumn sun glinting off our dentures?

Does it just mean marriage? A big, white wedding and an even bigger fairy-princess dress? Profoundly moving speeches, public vows and declarations of love, set amidst the colorful explosions of flowers and bridesmaid dresses and bombonière?

Or something "edgy" and "us?" Me in a sunshine yellow cocktail dress, him in suspenders. If I write it idiosyncratic to us does it make it more meaningful? Is it a happier ending, then, if we don't conform to tradition?

Or is an engagement "enough?" A big, sparkly diamond on my hand, is that happily ever after?

Does it necessarily include children? Are dirty diapers and midnight feedings essential to prove our love genuine and lasting? Is our story complete if I don't write him rubbing my swollen belly and declaring me the most beautiful woman he's ever seen?

Maybe it's any of those things. All of them. Or none of them.

I rack my brain for the endings of novels that have stuck with me, that have kept me enraptured until the words ran out and I was left staring at the white of the back cover, my heart full and satisfied. My head spins with the characters and stories that have populated my life, that have been my company, my solace, my joy.

Happily ever after is saccharine sweet, and simple. Neat bows and no loose ends, wrapping paper that's smooth and creased just-so—those conclusions certainly have their appeal.

But ending with hope? Possibility? That is the best, most satisfying kind of ending. An ending that's not really _The End_, but truly, is just the beginning.

"Hope." I say it out loud; I taste it. It's sweet but complex, nuanced, like the finest cognac.

Yes, it's an ending with love. Love that endures and cherishes and makes sacrifices. Love that persists when it's hard. Love that keeps its promises.

Love with hope.

* * *

"When this ends … you won't be here, will you?"

His lips are warm on my brow. "I'll stay with you to the end. To the very last word."

I nod, wiping my cheeks. I take a deep and shaky breath. "Okay."

"Bella. I love you."

"I'll always love you, Edward."

"It's time, pretty girl. Write." He kisses me again.

With my heart in my throat, tears in my eyes, and his arms wrapped around me, I lift my fingers to the keys, poised to begin their final dance.

And then I start to type.

* * *

**A/N: I have been absolutely terrible with review replies, I know. I'm so sorry, RL has been a little crazy lately.**

**And hey, if you're still reading - I'm super thankful!**

**Tam, thank you - for everything.**

**Shell x**

**P.S. I'm going away on holidays tomorrow, so this is posting early, and Chapter 16 will probably be up in two weeks time.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

* * *

"_If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it." Anaïs Nin_

* * *

"_Isabella?"_

"_Mmm?"_

_Edward picked her up, chuckling as she shrieked, and sat down in her desk chair, pulling her onto his lap. His chin on her shoulder, he peered at the open document on her screen. "Whatchya doing?"_

"_Writing."_

"_Really?" He nipped at her shoulder. "What are you writing, love?"_

"_Nothing serious. I'm just messing around, seeing what I come up with."_

_Pulling her hair off her neck, he kissed across her shoulder and up her neck. "What do you mean?"_

_Melting against his hot skin, she scrolled up to the top of her document. "I just, well, I'm doing these little exercise. I use a prompt—like a picture or a word or a phrase—and I give myself ten minutes to just write, like two hundred words."_

"_You're giving yourself homework?"_

_Isabella laughed, while Edward wrapped the lengths of hair around his wrist, then slid it off again. "Kind of. I mean, yeah, I guess so. But who knows? I might stumble onto something that really sets off something in my mind, something I can expand on. I'm struggling at the moment; I'll try anything to find something that gets me going"_

_She felt Edward's lips stretch into a smile against her shoulder blade. He tugged at the ends of her hair. "Can _I_ give you homework?"_

_Pulling forward, she twisted, trying to look over her shoulder at him. "What, like you pick out something for me to write from?"_

"_Sure."_

_Isabella eyed him speculatively, but shrugged. "Okay."_

"_Yeah?" The grin that lit his face was wide, and slightly devious._

"_Are you going to try to get me to write porn?"_

_He shrugged, his eyes bright with mischief. "We can work up to it."_

_Reaching around her, he found the trackpad on her laptop and pulled up her browser. "You should like, close your eyes or something, okay?"_

_Giggling, Isabella complied. "Don't be too mean, okay?"_

"_Never." It took Edward a little while before he found something he thought suitable. His fingers picked out the words slowly. "Okay. You can look now."_

**He didn't get an answer.**

"_Hey, that's a good one, baby," she told him, laughing as she felt his torso straighten against her back. Even as her mind was starting to spin in different directions, she could picture him puffing up a little with her praise. "Don't watch, okay? I'll tell you when I'm done."_

_Edward sighed, pretending to be put out. "Okay, fine. But you've only got five minutes."_

_While Isabella's fingers started to dart over the keys, he contented himself by tracing patterns across her shoulders and back._

"_All right. Done."_

"_Read it to me?"_

"_Read it yourself," she told him, laughing._

"_But I might not do it justice. You know, pick up on the correct tone or whatever."_

"_Fine!" She sighed. "Stephen glanced over his shoulder when he heard the jangle and thunk of keys dropped onto the sideboard. One look at her face told him everything he needed to know. The creases lining her forehead, the pinched cheeks, the lips pressed into a tight line: another let down, another 'We're not hiring right now,' another 'Your resumé is impressive, _but_-' _

"_He heard the thump-thump of the high heeled shoes she despised so hitting the floor, and chuckled when her bra went sailing past him, landing on the other side of the table, a sprawl of sapphire satin and lace._

"'_I'll start dinner in half an hour,' he called over his shoulder. 'Salmon okay with you?'_

"_He didn't get an answer. Of course, he didn't expect one. When she was in this kind of mood, he might as well ask his questions of the goldfish that circled the small bowl set in the middle of the table. At least the fish would swim towards him, mouth gaping as it anticipated the flakes of food that rained into its tiny ocean every afternoon."_

_Edward smiled, bemused by the things that came out of his girlfriend's mouth and mind. "That was fun," he told her. "I like the bra thing. And the goldfish."_

"_Thanks."_

"_One more?"_

"_Okay," she said. "One more."_

_When he told her she could open her eyes, Edward felt Isabella still in his arms as she studied the picture he'd found. It was black and white, two pairs of legs—a man and a woman's—naked, tangled together. _

_He watched her shoulders straighten, felt her shift on his lap, and he began to second-guess himself. The picture was vague but sensual, their coupling implied rather than explicit, but maybe he had crossed some line he wasn't aware existed. He was relieved then, when Isabella's fingers found the keys and began to dance across them. _

_He tried to not to look as she typed, occupying himself with trying to plait her hair as he waited. He's successfully tangled into a messy twist when she paused, took a deep breath and said, her voice wavering a little, "Okay. You can look, now."_

"_Read it to me." His voice was low, an instruction not a suggestion._

_He watched Isabella's hands curl into fists, saw her stretch her fingers back out, felt the deep breath she took before she began to read._

"_My fingertips trace down your arm, shoulder to wrist. I hide a smile against your shoulder blade as I watch goose bumps chase my touch. Your lips lie, your eyes lie, but your body can't but speak the truth._

"_I push a knee between your thighs, and the hot silk of your skin surrounds me. My hand creeps back up your body, over your belly, up the ladder of your rib cage, over the swell of your breast. My thumb brushes across your nipple, and it can't lie either. I chuckle as your body jerks in response to my teasing pinches, then groan as the swell of your ass pushes against where I am hard and aching. _

"_You start to rock your hips, trying to create the friction you crave, but I straighten my leg, just a fraction, just enough that my thigh is not quite where you want it, and a whimper escapes you. Truth finally starts to spill from your lips._

"_Feeling generous, I snake a hand between your legs, where you are hot and damp, where you– Edw– "_

_Isabella's shriek at finding herself propelled across the room, strong fingers digging into her waist, was cut off when her back was pressed against the wall and Edward's mouth crashed down on hers. His kiss was consuming, his hands everywhere, squeezing her hip, running up and down her arms, sliding underneath her shirt and pawing at her breasts._

_She moaned into his mouth and he answered in kind. His hands slipped down, under her ass, gripping her thighs. Lifting her, he kept her pinned against the wall, bucking his hips into her. _

_When his lungs demanded oxygen, Edward pulled back, chest heaving. "So fucking sexy." _

"_I didn't even finish." She giggled._

"_Later." He grunted, rocking his pelvis against her. "Need you. Now."_

* * *

_**Almost five months later …**_

_Standing in the middle of the field, Isabella spun a circle, looking at the cornflower blue sky. "It's pretty, but I could never live here."_

"_Why's that?" Edward's gaze was focused on her, filtered through the viewfinder of his camera._

"_I mean, it's amazing out here. Beautiful. The sky seems bigger. And at night, the stars are brighter. But I don't know. It's disorienting. It's unnatural, being so far away from the coast, I don't know which way the ocean is from here."_

_She rolled her eyes as Edward pointed in one direction and then the opposite._

"_It smells different here, too, without the sea breezes. It's earthy, fragrant out here. Heady. I don't know, I feel … less restrained here, but not necessarily in a free kind of way. The wide-open spaces, the pungent air … it makes me feel, well, almost nervous, unhinged."_

"_Are you homesick?" Edward asked, lowering the camera. They were still a good two weeks from home, three if they continued to stop as frequently as they had been._

"_No, not at all," she assured him, her smile genuine and warm. "I'm really enjoying exploring, seeing the country. I'm just saying, even as we see all these amazing places, it makes me realize that home really is home."_

"_Yeah, I think I know what you mean," he said. "I'm glad I've seen all these places, but I don't have any desire to do more than pass through, you know?"_

"_Yes, exactly." _

_In October, more than a year after Edward had tripped and tricked his way into her life, Isabella had hit a wall. The difficulty she was having in settling on a new subject for a novel spilled over into almost all areas of her life. Uninspired and frustrated—bored, basically—she had become rather difficult to live with. With nothing to occupy her except an empty mind, she had been driving the both of them crazy until Edward had sat her down and made an outrageous suggestion. He would take six months off work, and they would drive across the country._

"_We'll drive east for three months, then start heading west again," he'd told her._

_And so, they had. _

_They'd started close to home, traveling just a few hours north to Salinas and the Monterey Peninsula. There, they spent a few days wandering through the libraries and museums, and wine-tasting in the Salinas Valley. They had lunch in the house at 132 Central Avenue, and then climbed Fremont Peak, where they absorbed the view of the valley laid out before them while Edward read to Isabella from a battered copy of _East of Eden_._

_Setting their sights east then, they had spent days on the road watching the scenery change as the passed through state after state, watching winter creep across the country, and stopping whenever they wanted for as long as they felt like it. Sometimes they stopped for a matter of hours before the road called them onward, and sometimes they lingered for days, as they had in Montgomery, Alabama, where Isabella had holed up in their hotel room and written for three days straight and Edward had only managed to pry her away from her laptop by lifting her from the chair and kissing her until her mind caught up with her body. _

_She claimed later that it was simply not possible for her to _not _be inspired to write in a town where the Fitzgerald's had left such a lasting impression, and which Zelda had described thus: "The weather here is a continual circus day—smoky with the sun like a red balloon and soft and romantic and sensual."_

_They made it as far as Columbus, Georgia, the hometown of Carson McCullers, before they decided it was time to follow the setting sun home. Although, Isabella had agreed only once she had extracted a promise from Edward that they would make time to visit New York and Boston and Chicago at some point in the future._

_It was when they were passing through San Antonio, Texas, that Edward had purchased the camera. On a whim, he'd left Isabella writing in one of the library of journals she'd brought with her, and walked into an electronics store, only to return with a DSLR camera that Isabella looked at once and decided never to attempt to use. He'd explained to her that while she had written stories and diaries and jotted down little notes along the way, he was going to try to capture their remaining experiences in his own way—once he figured how to operate the damn thing._

_When he uploaded his first few attempts to Isabella's laptop, they were both surprised to discover that while he clearly needed to become better familiarized with his equipment, he seemed to have a natural ability behind the viewfinder. He had an eye for composition, for taking shots that were distinctly unusual but undeniably stunning, and Isabella had already taken note of several of his photographs that she wanted enlarged and hung on their living room wall as soon as they returned home._

_And so it was, that they were standing in a cotton field in Arizona, with the spring sun shining down upon them. _

_Edward lifted his camera again, adjusting the aperture and pointing the lens at Isabella. She rolled her eyes, but otherwise ignored him as she continued to wander through the cotton field—in the last two months she had become somewhat inured to the constant presence of the camera._

"_I do miss the beach," she told him, plucking at a fluffy white ball. "I can't wait to stand with my feet in the sand and just let the ocean wash over me."_

"_I can't wait to see you in a bathing suit," he told her, the wide smile beneath the camera was all she could see of his face._

"_Right. 'Cause you don't see me naked anywhere near enough."_

_He shrugged, his forefinger pushing down the shutter release again. "It's different."_

"_What about you? I mean, I've been writing the whole time we've been on the road. Do you miss work?"_

_Edward lowered the camera, his lips pursed in thought. "Yes and no. I mean, it's been fantastic, of course, getting to see so much of the country, and meet so many people. And, I'm not going to lie, going for over five months now without having to adjust my sleeping patterns—that's been pretty awesome. But I do miss the hospital. I miss the kids, I miss Pete and Claire and everybody else. And sure, it can be incredibly difficult, demanding work, but I do miss seeing patients go home: healthy, healed, happy."_

_He shook his head. "I can see the appeal of the itinerant lifestyle, but I don't think it's for me."_

_Isabella smiled. "That's lucky."_

"_How so?"_

"_Well, you know I'll follow you anywhere, baby, but really, it's a whole lot less effort if you have a fixed address."_

_Edward rolled his eyes. "Come here."_

_One arm around her waist, he held his other arm out, the lens of the camera pointed back towards them. He snapped a few shots, then turned to her, tucking her hair behind her ears. "Let's go home."_

* * *

_**Four months later …**_

_It was probably fortuitous that Isabella heard Edward's giggle before she heard the three loud thumps echoing from the other end of the house. Rather than the banging waking her in a panic, she was already smiling drowsily as his drunken chuckles bounced down the hall._

"_Shit." Another giggle. "Shhhh."_

_Isabella shook her head, her hand fumbling around on the nightstand until she found the switch for her lamp._

_Edward stumbled into the room, and found her propped up against the headboard, her skin pearly in the soft lamplight. "Hey, pretty girl."_

"_Hi, there. What was that banging?"_

"_Uh." He pushed a hand through his disheveled hair. "My shoes … and the wall. They flew right off my feet." He demonstrated the movement, kicking first one leg then the other, his socks flopping about his toes._

_Isabella wondered how two shoes equaled three thumps, but figured there probably wasn't much point questioning him—at this point in time mathematics would not be his strong suit. "You look like you've had a good night."_

"_It was okay," he told her. His droopy smile wilted as he started to fumble with his shirt buttons. "Would've been better if you were there." He addressed the words to his navel, as he focused on the nearly impossible task of pushing the little plastic circles through their little holes._

"_You needed a boys' night out. And so did Peter. Baby, how is he doing?"_

"_He's met someone, but he was being cagey about it."_

"_Well, he'll tell you when he's ready. It's a big deal that he's even thinking about dating again." "Yeah, I know." Edward mumbled, still fumbling with his shirt. "Worrying about him, it's like a habit now."_

"_I know." Isabella sighed. "Baby, do you need a hand?"_

_Leering at her, he giggled again. "Is a _hand_ all I'll get?"_

_With a flourish, he pulled his half unbuttoned shirt over his head, only to find his wrists were still trapped in the dark blue cotton. "Aw, fuck."_

_Yawning, Isabella slipped out of bed and rescued her lover from the evils of his cufflinks. "Ah, it's 'cause you wore Decepticon ones," she told him, setting the small silver pieces on the top of the chest of drawers. "They were messing with you."_

_Turning again to face him, she found Edward had been much more successful in his endeavor to remove the clothing from the lower half of his body—with the exception of his left sock, which was still stubbornly clinging to his ankle._

"_Come on, John. Bedtime."_

"_John?" Edward's spine straightened as his brow creased._

"Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John,  
Went to bed with his trousers on,  
One sock off and one sock on _…" she trailed off, eyebrows raised as she nodded at his feet._

_Edward grinned. "I don't have any trousers on." He wriggled his hips in demonstration._

"_Yes," Isabella kept her tone dry, though she couldn't fight her smile. "I can see that."_

"_And, anyway, he went to bed, 'one _shoe_ off and one _shoe_ on'. Not socks."_

"_No, that's absurd. No one goes to bed with their shoes on."_

_He considered that, one hand on his hip, the other in his hair. "It would be uncomfortable. But I think we're missing the point."_

"_We are?"_

"_Yes." His whole body seemed to nod. "I have no trousers on."_

"_I'm very aware of that. What would you like me to do about it?"_

_His grin was toothy and wicked. "How does the rhyme start … diddle diddle ?"_

_Isabella snorted. "I think you just crossed the line from cute to creepy. That's a nursery rhyme, Edward."_

"_No diddling?"_

"_No. Definitely not."_

"_Oh." Pouting, Edward sighed. "Okay."_

_He took a few steps towards the bed, but Isabella's hands on his shoulders made him pause._

_Her fingers slid across his shoulders and down his arms, feather-light touches that left goose bumps in their wake._

"_I thought you said –"_

"_I didn't say 'no sex.' "_

_A shudder ran through Edward's body as the words slid over her lips, but he remained rooted to the spot, swaying slightly as alcohol and desire raced each other through his veins._

_Isabella smiled, watching his fingers flex and curl as her hands moved to his back, traced down his spine, and wrapped around his waist. She pressed a kiss to his shoulder blade, and then giggled. Pulling away suddenly, she pinched his ass, hard, and then leaped back towards the bed._

_Edward landed on top of her, his weight heavy and warm on her back._

"_Am I squishing you too much?" His words were hot on the side of her face, and she could smell the whisky on his breath._

"_You're okay," she said, pushing her hips back against him and pulling a groan from his lips._

"_Love …"_

"_Mmm."_

_Edward rolled off her, tugging her hip until she followed, rolling onto her back._

"_What's up?"_

_His smile was sheepish. "I, uh, I should probably … 'cause you know, I might –" His fingers trailed down her belly and snapped at the elastic of her panties._

"_It's okay."_

"_It is? But –"_

"_You can make it up to me later."_

_Edward's lips twisted into a cocky grin. "Deal."_

_Scrambling over her, he peppered her face and throat with sloppy kisses, chuckling into the curve where her shoulder met her neck as she giggled and squirmed._

_Pulling back a little, his eyes became suddenly serious as he curled his palm against her cheek. "I love you."_

"_I know, drunkypants. I love you, too."_

_Given his level of inebriation, the kiss he pressed to her lips was surprisingly tender._

_His expression altered again, his rapidly shifting mood causing Isabella to blink up at him in surprise as a wicked smirk curled his lips. He tugged the hem of her tank top, "Take this off," before his fingers slipped into the waistband of her panties, and he dragged them down her legs._

_He frowned as he untangled the cotton from her ankles, though his smile returned, sliding sly across his lips, as he sat back on his ankles. Twirling her panties on his forefinger, he chuckled, before flinging them across the room. Isabella—now tank top-less, as instructed—shook her head._

"_Proud of yourself, huh?"_

_His eyes glinted in the dim light. "Not yet."_

_With the enthusiasm only inspired by half a dozen whisky shots, Edward pushed her knees apart, winking at her as he lowered his mouth to her skin. His lips started at her left kneecap and trailed up her leg until he found her hipbone, which he kissed, before turning his attention to her right thigh._

_He repeated this process several times, enamored by the feel of her smooth skin under his tingling lips, oblivious to the torture he was inflicting on her. _

_Isabella could barely keep her hips still. Her body was virtually vibrating with the effort, her fingers twisting into the sheets until her knuckles were white and aching._

_A grunt of frustration slid from between her clenched teeth. "Edward. Baby." Her words were like the gasps of a drowning woman. "You're killing me."_

_Pausing, he looked up, his head cocked in confusion. "Huh?"_

"_Stop teasing me."_

_She punctuated her demand with a rock of her hips, and his eyes widened as her own fingers moved to the place she wanted his. "Fuck." He watched her hands move, watched the little circles she was making, his jaw slack._

_His eyes darted from where her hand was curled between her legs, to her breasts, heaving with the gasping breaths she was taking, to her eyes, which were bright against the flush of her cheeks. _

_She bit back a screech of frustration as his fingers closed around her wrist and pulled it away, but when his mouth took its place her groan of pleasure could not be stifled._

_Months and months of intimacy had taught Edward her body's secrets, and even in his intoxicated state, it didn't take long before her thighs were squeezing the sides of his head as she cursed and gasped through her climax._

"_Fucking hell," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "Come here."_

_Edward crawled over her, self-satisfaction written in his smile. "_Now_ I'm proud of myself."_

_She nodded, her body still tingling like a live wire. "Yeah."_

_After a few fumbled attempts that had Isabella both cringing and giggling, he found his way inside her, rocking enthusiastically while keeping up a steady stream of chatter. He complimented everything from the color of her nipples to the shine in her eyes, the way her breasts bounced when he moved his hips like this, and the way her jaw dropped open when he did that._

_He was praising the softness of the skin that stretched across her ribs when he paused mid-sentence, his eyes squeezing tight as the tremors spread through his body. His elbows buckling, he collapsed on Isabella, mumbling something incoherent into her breasts._

_She wriggled under his weight, separating their bodies, but Edward merely grunted a little and rubbed his cheek against her chest. She shivered as the scruff on his jaw scraped over a nipple, but the smile on her lips was tender as she ran her fingers through his hair and kissed his forehead._

_She realized, though, when she reached for the tissue box on the nightstand, that he had trapped her, inconveniently, right in the middle of the bed. She could reach neither the tissues, nor the lamp switch—and a trip to the bathroom was becoming a necessity. Wriggling and pushing, she managed to extricate herself from Edward, who, in her absence, wrapped his arms around her pillow and burrowed his face into it._

_When she returned from the bathroom a few minutes later, Edward was still in the same spot, though he had begun to snore softly. A fond smile turning up the corners of her mouth, Isabella flicked off the lamp and clambered back into bed._

* * *

_Morning dawned with a peculiar gentleness, muted golds and reds seeping across the sky, as though the sun itself were regarding Edward with the same tenderness that was lighting the face of the girl curled up beside him._

_Finally, though, she had had enough of watching him sleep, and she began poking his ribs, his waist, and the inside of his elbows in an attempt to rouse him._

"_No."_

_Isabella poked him in the side again, harder._

"_Stop."_

_Another poke, this time her finger jabbed at his thigh._

_With a grunt, Edward grabbed her wrist, one eye cracking open. "What?"_

"_Hey." She smiled brightly, and he groaned again. "Come on, baby. Wake up."_

"_You know–" his response was muffled both by the pillow and the fact he was barely moving his lips "–coffee would have been preferable to all the poking."_

"_Psshh." Isabella giggled. "I wake up almost every day to you poking me."_

_A lazy smirk crawled across the half of Edward's mouth that was visible. "My kind of poking's a lot more fun and you know it."_

"_If you say so."_

_Jumping off the bed, Isabella grabbed the comforter and sheets and pulled them off the bed, laughing as Edward spluttered in protest._

"_Get up."_

"_I am up." He rolled onto his back, wriggling his eyebrows._

"_Impressive."_

"_Right?"_

"_No, I meant the fact you're hungover and have still managed to make two jokes about your penis before getting out of bed."_

"_My penis is no joke." He told her, the intensity in his gaze drawing her back towards the bed. "And I don't think I'm hungover."_

"_You're not?"_

"_Uh-uh." He licked his lips. "Isabella?"_

"_Mmm?"_

"_Come back to bed."_

* * *

_It was late in the afternoon before they finally untangled their limbs, unglued their lips and crawled out from beneath the sheets. Cereal served as breakfast, and rather than showering, the pair donned swimsuits and headed for the beach._

_Edward watched Isabella floating over the waves, amused at the giggles that escaped her as the sea lifted her over its crests and dropped her down into its troughs. She floated for what seemed like hours, paying no attention to where she drifted relative to the shoreline. "Don't you worry you'll get washed out to sea or something?"_

"_No," she told him. "Not when I'm out here with you."_

_He declined her suggestion to try it, uneasy at the thought of committing himself so completely to the ocean's mercy. While Isabella liked to be carried over the waves, he preferred to dive beneath them—deep enough that he avoided being dumped, but shallow enough that he could feel the entire weight of the wave rolling over his body._

_Eventually, waterlogged and wrinkly-skinned, they dragged themselves out of the surf. _

_As they waded through the whitewash, Edward tugged on Isabella's hand, turning her to face him. Pushing her saltwater-heavy hair over her shoulder, he pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. _

_Another wave rolled up the shore, the water rising to their knees before it was dragged back down the beach. Contentment flooded through Isabella, as inexorable as the tide, pushing a sigh from her lungs and lifting the corners of her mouth into a smile._

_With sand under her toes, and the ocean curling its foamy fingers around her ankles, with the sun reflecting gold in her eyes, and the sea breeze in her hair, Edward's hands on her waist were all that anchored Isabella to the present, all that stopped her from simply drifting away like a little balloon._

_Edward chuckled, his smile every bit as bright. He could almost feel the happiness emanating from her, as bright and as warming as the sun's fierce rays against his back._

_Pushing up to her tiptoes, the balls of her feet digging into the wet sand, Isabella threw her arms around his neck and crashed her mouth against his. There was an exuberance to their kiss; the push and pull of lips on lips, a dance both partners knew by heart._

_She pulled back when her lungs insisted upon it, touching a fingertip to her swollen lips. Edward kissed her temple and slung an arm over her shoulder. The slow-sinking sun lit their faces, matching the warm glow that seemed to be radiating through both their bodies as the stood in companionable silence, watching another day slip into twilight._

* * *

**A/N: Thank you so much for all your well wishes. My holiday in Tasmania was lovely, and we came home just before the bushfires got completely out of control. I'm heartbroken for all those who have lost everything down there :'(**

**Thanks, as ever, to Tam for helping me whip this chapter into shape, and for being a wonderful friend. Her exquisite story, _In the Debris,_ is complete, and if you haven't read it yet, I must insist you drop everything and start it now!**

**Love you all,**

**Shell x**


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

* * *

"_You see I'm trying in all my stories to get the feeling of the actual life across, not just to depict life, or criticize it, but to actually make it alive." Ernest Hemingway_

* * *

It's dark. The sun sank below the horizon hours ago, taking _his_ warmth with it.

I am alone.

All color has drained away; only my laptop screen and the weak silvery glow of the waxing crescent moon light the room.

If I were asked, in this moment, if I would ever write again, my response would be a shake of my head, eyes squeezed closed and lips pressed thin. I'm beyond the ability to speak, even a whispered "no," would be too great an effort.

There is a tiredness that's settled in my bones, that's pumping sluggishly through my veins. I feel as though perhaps my very soul has been drained from my body, bleeding through my fingertips and across the screen before me.

Fitzgerald said, "Often I think writing is a sheer paring away of oneself leaving always something thinner, barer, more meager." And right now, I understand him completely. I feel less, somehow, than I once was. I have written myself to spectral-thinness; there is a part of my soul that has left my body and exists now only in the words on my screen.

Habit alone has me saving the document, closing down the computer. My eyes ache from countless hours of staring at the screen, watching my words—my great romance, my love and my life—unfurling across it. I blink, each time my eyelids flutter down they become that much heavier, that much harder to force open again.

I'm too tired to cry. That will come later. I can already feel those tears gathering, rising like a dammed river in flood conditions. It is only a matter of time before the levy breaks.

Now, though, I just need sleep. I need oblivion.

* * *

Waking without him feels unnatural.

I anticipate his teasing, his kisses, his touch, his low chuckle. Instead, I'm greeted by cool sheets, an empty bed and the echoing roar of the ocean.

I focus harder, trying to recall the timbre of his voice, the feel of his fingertips, the taste of his kisses. They're there, but different. Not so much a memory as a vague impression—a picture in the clouds that changes and disappears almost as soon as it is seen.

Lying in bed, I stare at the ceiling. There are cobwebs collecting in one corner. The whole house is probably in need of cleaning.

I roll over, turning away from this evidence of my preoccupation, my obsession. I direct my gaze out the window, away from this empty bed, this empty room, this empty house.

Even the sun has deserted me today. The sky is bruise-dark, rain threatening to soak the earth at any moment. In the distance, a streak of lightning flashes, jagging down, fiery white, from the clouds to the ocean.

If I were writing this, my tears would start to fall with the rain. When the heavy drops start to splatter against the roof and the windows, soaking the world in a matter of minutes, I'd curl up into a ball, arms wrapped tight around my knees, and I'd shake with sobs. I'd cry until my throat was sobbed raw, until my eyes were red and swollen and stinging, until I fell back into an exhausted sleep. I would sleep, dreamlessly, hands curled under my cheek, while the rain cried the tears I no longer had the energy to expel.

I watch the storm move onshore. The sky darkens further, thunder starts to rumble, like someone is shifting heavy furniture overhead. Lightning flashes brighter as the winds carry the weather across the ocean towards me. And then the heavens open, and the rain starts to fall, drumming against the windows, tap-dancing on the roof, and … nothing.

There are no sobs tearing from my throat, only the howling wind. There are no rivers of tears streaking down my cheeks, only the rivulets of water washing my window clean. There is no rocking and shaking, just the violent swaying of the palm trees surrounding the house.

* * *

I shower.

I dress.

I make coffee.

I eat breakfast.

I reply to Jacob's "So, what's next?" email with what I've written of Rosalie's story. I know it's unpolished and probably trash, but it'll keep him off my back for a at least a few months—evidence that I'm already working on something new will keep him happy.

I stare at my cell phone when it chirps out a reminder that I'm supposed to be having dinner at Mom and Dad's. I think about canceling, but decide that if there's anyone I want to see today, it's my father.

* * *

In the dozen steps between my front door and my car, I get drenched.

The drive is uncomfortable and quiet. The only sounds are the _zzhhh_ of the tires against the wet asphalt, and the swish-swish of the windshield wipers. My maxi dress is soaked through, the cotton plastered to my skin. My hair is damp from both shower and rain, and water slides down my neck and soaks into my dress.

When I get to my parents' house, I park in the carport, and pull on the cardigan I shoved in my bag as an afterthought.

Dad opens the door when I knock. He looks at me closely as I force a greeting, making some vague comment on the continuing downpour. His moustache seems to droop with his frown.

"Come on, Cygnet," he says.

He takes my hand, just like he did when I was a little girl. I can feel the calluses on his fingertips against the back of my hand, and they're a small comfort—a familiar touch when I need it most.

He pulls me straight past the kitchen, where Mom is banging around, and leads me into his music room, closing the door before he lets go of my hand. He looks at me, and I wonder what he sees.

Does he see that I've lost something? Does Edward's absence show in my eyes?

"You okay?"

"No," I tell him. I'm so very _not_ okay.

He nods, making no effort to hide the worry in his dark eyes. "You want to talk about it?"

I do, but, "I can't," I say. "Or, I don't know how to, anyway."

Dad lets go of my hand and gestures at the couch. I sit down on one end, curling my knees up underneath me. I settle a throw pillow in my lap, and tug the sleeves of my cardigan over my wrists, my fingers rubbing against the wool.

Picking up his guitar, Dad tunes it, looking at me as he twists the pegs, finding perfect pitch instinctively. _Dum-duum dum-duummm. _As he tightens the D-string a little, he tells me, "I might not understand. I might not be able to help. But you know you can tell me anything."

I nod, because I do know that. I know that as well as I know my own name, as well as I know the tune he's starting to pick out. "Thanks, Dad."

"Sing with me?"

I nod again. Dad sweeps his hand across the strings once, and then his fingers start to dance, plucking out the melody. He sings the first verse, his deep voice curling around me like the first cup of coffee in the morning—familiar, comforting, _home_.

I open my mouth to join him on the chorus, but my voice catches in my throat, and instead of the words we've sung together a hundred times, there is only silence.

I press my fingers to my lips to hold in the sob that's building in my throat, but it's like trying to stop the flow of a flooded river with a bathtub plug. I contain the sound, but the tears begin to drip, acid-hot, down my cheeks.

The music encircling me shifts, and I know Dad has noticed my meltdown when Simon and Garfunkel replaces Joni Mitchell.

"_I'm on your side  
__When times get rough  
__And friends just can't be found  
__Like a bridge over troubled water  
__I will lay me down."_

It's a song he's only played for me once before. It was after my first day of high school, and I had come home in tears, having gone unnoticed and unspoken to all day.

Mom told me I needed to make more of an effort, that I shouldn't wait for people to talk to me. She said that I should just swallow down my shyness and introduce myself to people. I remember the way my stomach sank like a stone at her words. They made sense—Mom always makes sense—but she made it sound so … so easy, like she couldn't believe she had to explain it to me. I felt so stupid and small that for me it seemed like such a hard thing to do.

I remember crying harder at her words, which made her shake her head and ask me if my period was due.

Dad came in then, and I remember the way his moustache twitched as he asked Mom to make some hot cocoa. And then he just sat down by me on the couch and started to play.

This song, these words—it's Dad's way of saying "I can't fix it for you, but I love you."

He keeps playing when the song ends, moving through all our favorites to some of his own and back again. He doesn't push me to talk, he just wraps me in gentle chords and the soothing timbre of his voice. He's just _there_.

I cry quietly, hiccupping occasionally as the saltwater continues to track down my cheeks and under my chin. I wipe the sticky feeling away, but make no real effort to fight the tears. I just cry.

* * *

When we sit down to dinner, my face is freshly washed, makeup reapplied.

"Did you use my Lancôme stuff?" Mom asks, sniffing my cheek as she places a plate in front of me.

"Uh, yeah. Is that – I mean, you don't mind, right?"

"No. It's fine, sweetheart." She squeezes my shoulder. She leans down, her lips beside my ear, "Are you still on the pill? That helps with the moodiness, you know?"

My eyes close as I gather my patience—it's like a wool sweater that's shrunk in the wash, and I have to tug at it to keep it covering me. "Yeah, I am. But thanks, Mom."

As we eat—or pick at our meal in Dad's and my case—my parents chatter away about the vacation they're planning. They're heading to Florida, where my grandparents have parked their Winnebago for a few months.

I promise Mom that I'll water her garden while they're gone, my eyes fixed on the window, watching the droplets play tag on their way down the glass.

"We're going to be gone for about three months," Mom says. "Will you have someone to keep you company? Someone special, perhaps?"

I reach for my glass of Riesling—the acid taste is kind of fitting as I swallow it down. "I'm quite fine on my own, Mom."

She clucks her tongue, her brow folding along its lines as she looks at me. I see the same concern and confusion lurking in her eyes that I've seen there for most of my life. I can almost guess the words that are poised on the tip of her tongue.

_You need to make more of an effort with people. You need to go out more. You need to meet some cute boys. You need to spend less time with your nose in a book. You need to spend less time writing, more time living._ It's always framed by her reassurance that she just wants me to be happy, and it's always underscored by the frustration she never articulates, but can't quite mask—_why can't you just be normal?_

When the silence stretches on, I look up from my plate, surprised—until I see the silent conversation my parents are having. Mom's eyebrows arch, and Dad shakes his head a little. She rolls her eyes, and he frowns. Mom sighs and picks up her fork—conversation over.

Dad catches me watching them and shoots me a wink, and the smile hiding in his moustache is clear in his dark eyes: _I've got your back, kid._

I poke my tongue out at him and he chuckles as I turn back to what I think is supposed to be some kind of pilaf—Mom's obviously attempted to trick out the recipe though.

I force down a few mouthfuls as Mom continues to pout. That familiar twinge of guilt over my mother's concern pings through me, so I start to tell her about Emily and Liam, and about reconnecting with Angela and Ben. She seems a little mollified as I ply her with various anecdotes from the last few weeks. I guess she's glad to know I haven't become a complete recluse.

* * *

I linger well into the evening at my parents', watching television with Dad while Mom's knitting needles click-clack away. I admire the pretty lemon-colored wool she's knitting with and she smiles proudly, telling me the hooded cardigan was supposed to be my birthday present.

"I didn't get it done in time." She laughs "So you'll get it for Christmas!"

"Aww. Thanks, Mom."

"Anytime, sweetheart. It's mohair, very soft, very warm. I bought it two winters ago, hoping I could use it to make some little hats and booties and coats." She sighs. "Wishful thinking, I guess."

I pause for a beat, tugging on the sleeves of that shrinking sweater. "Make all the booties you want. I'll give them to Em and Liam for their peanut."

"Isabell–"

I flinch at the use of my full name, but Dad is already talking, drawing her attention away from me. "Renée. Come on. Bea's young. Stop trying to rush her through life. Let her live it."

"She's not living it, though!" The disappointment and frustration in my mother's voice has my stomach tying itself in knots.

Dad opens his mouth but I cut him off. I won't sit here and listen to them argue about me, not today—I've spent too many years doing that. "Don't you think that's my call?" I struggle to keep my voice quiet, as anger and sadness war within me. "I get it, you know? I get that you're worried about me. But, just – Mom, I'm different from you, okay? I'm just different."

"Bel–"

"No, I'm serious. I'm twenty-four, and yes, I know I was about to start kindergarten when you were my age but, Mom, that's your life, okay? I mean, I love that you're so happy with the way you've lived that you think everybody should do it your way, I do. But I can't – I can't be you."

Pushing the hair out of my eyes, I breathe deeply, trying to calm the throbbing of my pulse in my veins. I lower my voice. "Maybe I'm taking longer than you'd like to figure out my life. But I'll get there, okay? Just – let me choose my own path. Let me set my own pace."

Mom's eyes are watery, shining with tears she's fighting. "It just worries me, sweetheart. You live all by yourself, and you spend so much time in your head, writing and reading. I just – I don't want you to miss out on life."

Edward's words dance through my mind. _You need to live your life. Real life._

With a sigh, I give her the only thing I can, "I'm working on it."

* * *

Dad's disappeared into his music room when I decide it's time to face my empty house again. I watch him for a while, his hands darting between the strings of his guitar and the leather-bound book he writes lyrics and chords into, his head nodding—whether at the rhythm in his mind or in silent conversation with himself, I don't know. He gives me a vague smile when I bid him goodnight, which makes me laugh. _Shoe's on the other foot._

I stop in the hallway outside the kitchen, listening to my mother as she sings to herself. Her voice is off-key and shaky, but not at all unpleasant. Even though I'm still a little upset with her, even though her voice is scratchy and slips off the notes too early, even though it lacks the richness of Dad's voice, it's actually kind of beautiful to me.

Maybe it's because I can hear the lightness of her heart in her song. My mother can be infuriating and insensitive, but she's content. Her world makes sense, and she likes it, and that's reflected in her voice as she warbles along with Mariah Carey and Boyz II Men. As her voice stretches for the notes it will never reach, I feel first stirrings of a tiny smile, that slight lift of my cheek, the small stretch of my lips—that little opening of my heart.

* * *

At home, I pour a glass of Pouilly Fumé and wander the house, like I might find him somewhere, like we're playing hide-and-seek. But he's not here, and my pacing loses steam, becomes a weary wandering from room to room. I'm no longer looking; I just can't seem to be still.

My laptop lies where I left it last night, closed up tight on my desk.

There's a whisper of a thought that teases me, suggesting that _he_ is in there. I ignore it. I can't face opening our story, not today. Instead, I open a new document and pull up my browser.

I sit awkwardly, perched on the edge of the chair, my spine pushed straight. Everything feels wrong. It feels like – like someone has come into my house and moved everything around. There's familiarity, but an uneasiness, too.

I've been moved around when I wasn't looking. I'm different.

The silence I once embraced, the quiet that once empowered me to unleash my most cherished flights of fancy, seems empty. Unnaturally still. Stifling.

Even as I type random words into tumblr and google—looking for a diversion, a distraction, some inspiration—the clatter of keys seems loud and abrasive.

I soon give up, shutting the computer down again.

I pace some more. Prowling, restless, from room to room. The echoes of my footsteps are quiet but I hate them. I hate the reminder of my own corporeality. Being tethered to this earth, wandering it without him—how am I supposed to live like this?

I know I should feel like there is a huge, gaping, Edward-sized hole inside of me—at least, that's how I'd write it. I think. But I can't feel it. There's no ache, no pain, no feeling like my ribs are too tight around my bruised heart as it pumps on, every beat a reminder that I am here and he is not.

I miss him, feel his absence, but there's no grief, no feeling of bereavement.

I just feel a little lost.

Why doesn't this hurt more?

I fall into bed, my dress twisted and bunched around my waist.

* * *

A week later, and the rain has continued steadily, neither easing nor falling heavier or harder. I wake again to grey skies and the rhythmic tapping of the rain, like impatient fingers on a tabletop.

I shower, enjoying the hot water pounding against my back, the tingle in my cold fingers and toes as it warms them.

I dress, digging out a pair of bright red stockings from my drawer, and wiggling my toes happily as I pull them on under the charcoal grey shift dress.

I make coffee, diligently dialing in the grinder and pulling half a dozen shots before I make one I'm satisfied with. The flavors of the espresso burst across my tongue—apricot jam and jasmine, underscored by dark caramel.

I eat breakfast, the kitchen air still grease-heavy as I tuck into the plate of French toast and bacon.

Once I've cleaned up the kitchen, swept the floors, and dealt with the cobwebs that were collecting not only in my bedroom, but across the whole house, habit lands me in front of my laptop. There's an email from Jacob, requesting I meet him in the city for lunch tomorrow.

_Shit. _

I probably should have checked over the stuff I sent him. Maybe it was even worse than I realized. It was certainly very rough, and I've barely worked on it while I was so entangled in Edward's story.

I can't imagine that it's so outrageously terrible that it warrants a face-to-face meeting. I mean, _Under the Frangipani Tree_ isn't going to be released into bookstores for another few weeks. It's not like I don't have time to fix it up, or even write a whole new novel before Maria could legitimately start complaining.

Still, I figure I probably should make a little effort at getting it in order.

With a sigh, I pull up the document that contains Rosalie's story and start to revise it. I clean it up a little, correcting a few glaring inconsistencies, pruning out some phrases and imagery that are too lilac-tinged for my liking, and making a few notes on where I intend the story to head.

It feels good to lose myself writing in the "normal" way. The way that means it's late afternoon before I realize it, my document is several thousand words longer, and my eyes are achy from staring at the screen.

I make a mental note to get my eyes tested in the next few weeks, but otherwise, there is nothing untoward about the day. Rosalie is still somewhat recalcitrant and hard to pin down; Mike is still too easy to oversimplify. I make another note to work in some more complexity to their relationship, to show some more nuance in his character—I need to make sure it's believable that Rosalie would have chosen to be with him.

Both of them, however, remain safely anchored in the words of their story.

It's a relief, to be honest. To know that I'm not going to have every character I write leap off the page and consume me so completely. Maybe I will be able to find my feet again.

I feel a bit less apprehensive about meeting up with Jacob, too. I'm actually looking forward to seeing where I can take Rosalie and Emmett's story. If nothing else, the last few months have forced me to explore what a healthy relationship looks like, what good communication requires, what it means to compromise.

With Edward and my mother's words still ringing in my ears, I close down my computer as the sky starts to darken, and send off a text inviting Emily and Angela to come over for dinner and a movie.

They both agree, and before I know it, I'm crawling into bed with a tummy full of popcorn and beer, my ears still ringing with the sound of girlish laughter and chatter.

* * *

"Sorry I'm late."

Jake smiles, white teeth flashing against dark skin. "I'm used to it, doll. You writers are ridiculous."

"The _traffic_ was ridiculous." I roll my eyes as I sit down in the chair he pulls out for me. "A few days of rain and it's like people completely forget how to drive. I passed three accidents on the way in—nothing serious, thankfully, but it added a good forty minutes to the trip."

Jake kisses my cheek—or the air beside it, anyway. "Uh-huh. So, how've you been?"

We make small talk until the waitress takes our orders, chatting about the weather and Victoria's novel. Jake tells me she's currently editing and revising it, and that while it won't be ready by Christmas, they're hoping to print in time for Valentine's Day.

"Oh, that's awesome. It was such a sweet, romantic story."

"Speaking of–" he throws a sheaf of papers onto the table "–sweet, romantic stories, you wanna tell me about this?"

His brows are drawn together as he watches me, there's concern and something more in his eyes, and I don't understand it. "Is it that bad?"

"Bad?" He shakes his head. "No, not at all."

The sigh of relief leaving my lungs gets stuck in my throat with his next words.

"It's just … well, it was a little awkward to read, Bea. I mean, what on earth is going on with you?"

"Awkward?" I sway a little in my chair, flipping through the pages in my mind. I'm trying hard to see where he's coming from—Jake usually just _gets_ where I'm going with a story, so I'm completely caught off guard by his assessment. "Well, I've found her to be a very difficult character to nail."

"That doesn't surprise me."

"I need to work some more nuance into the relationships, I know. I spent most of yesterday reworking a lot of it, and I'm actually looking forward to seeing where I can go with it."

Jacob's eyes narrow as he looks at me. "Are you sure about going ahead with this? I mean, it's really fucking engaging; your characters are strong, and the prose is really beautiful in parts, but …"

I tip my head. "But?"

"But, I mean," Jake's eyes close briefly, and he shakes his head. "This is taking self-insertion to a completely new level. I just – are you sure you want to do this?"

"Self-insertion?" I grip the edge of the table as the room turns upside down.

Jake sighs, elbows on the table, fingertips pressed together. He doesn't look at me. "Even – I mean, if you'd given her a different name I might not have picked up on it. But I thought it was weird that you'd give a character your name … and then–" he shrugs "–it was easy to see you. Because I was looking, you know?"

I shake my head "No."

Jake's still talking, but I'm not listening. I reach for the thick wad of papers—the pages I assumed were his copy of Rosalie's story—and my stomach drops right out of me as I look at the words on the first page.

_She'd noticed him when he walked into the coffee shop, laughing with two other men. It was the sound of his laughter—genuine and warm—that had caught her attention. As her eyes found him—head thrown back, his arm slung across his friend's shoulder—she couldn't help her smile._

"Oh, fuck. No."

Jake stops midsentence, frowning at me. "Are you okay, Bea? You look a little pale."

I shake my head, leafing through my story—our story, Edward's and mine. It makes my skin crawl, like a million ants are trying to burrow their way into my body, to know that Jacob has read this. This secret, deepest, darkest, most private part of my soul—he's read it, he's – _oh shit_ … He's made notes, highlighted sections, penciled in questions and made suggestions for making the story stronger.

"One minute," I tell him. And then I'm running on unsteady feet, embarrassment propelling me into the ladies' room. Hands on the counter, my eyes on my shoes, I lock my knees to stop their shaking.

"What the fuck am I going to do?" I say the words out loud, raising my eyes to the mirror. The girl reflected there has no answers. She looks as shocked as I feel, all white-faced and teary-eyed.

I take a couple of deep breaths, and square off with my reflection. I'll just tell Jacob that I made a mistake, that I sent him the wrong file, and that I'm not interested in publishing _that_ story. Simple.

Our lunch has arrived and Jacob's looking at me warily when I sit back down. "You all right?"

I nod, reaching for the papers. "This isn't the novel I intended to send you, Jacob. I'm sorry about that. This–"

"Can I ask why you wrote it, Bea?" He chews his lip for a moment, like he's trying to bite back the question, but then it kind of spills out anyway. "I mean, why? Why did you feel the need to write this? You can't be that–" He stops short, shaking his head.

I look into his dark eyes, wondering how much to say. He knows writers. He spends most of his day cajoling and encouraging and harassing them—could he understand?

I think that maybe he just might. And so I tell him. I tell him about Edward refusing to cooperate in the role I intended for him in the novel that has become Rosalie's story, how I just couldn't seem to make them come together, how he seemed to exist beyond the pages and take on his own life.

He takes a sip of his mineral water, then purses his lips as he studies me. He sighs. "You're not the first writer I've heard admit that they talk to their characters." He speaks slowly, like he's choosing his words carefully. "And yeah, I've heard writers talk about characters taking over a story and directing it places they didn't know it would head. And self-insertion—that's also nothing new. But this–" he lowers his voice and watches me closely "–is more than that, isn't it?"

I nod, speaking to my hands, clasped in my lap. "I fell in love with him." My voice is so soft I'm not sure if Jake can hear me as I tell him how Edward haunted me, how he started to take over my dreams and then followed me into the waking hours.

"Shit, Bella." Jake scrubs his hands over his face. "You know this sounds completely insane, don't you?"

I laugh, but it tastes bitter. "You think that hasn't occurred to me?"

"Is he – like, do you see him now?"

I roll my eyes. "No, Jacob. I finished the story."

He tips his head, looking at me curiously. "And that was it? Gone?"

"Yeah. As soon as I finished."

"And like … you knew he wasn't real?"

"I knew – I know. I – I _chose_ it. I mean – it unsettled me, you know? So I thought about just stopping, putting the story away. But I didn't want to. I talked to, um, Victoria about it, actually."

"Right."

"I don't know, Jake. I know it sounds absurd, and believe me, if it continued after the story finished, I'd be making an appointment with a psychiatrist, okay?"

"I'd hope so." His poker face is very good, but something in his eyes has me prickling.

"I'm not the first person to fall in love with a character, you know?"

He frowns, but says nothing as he picks up his knife and fork.

"I mean, haven't you ever fallen for a character in a story that you've read? Or, haven't you ever been, say, infuriated to the point of shouting at them when they made a stupid mistake? Or cried when they suffered? Or laughed when they made a joke?"

He swallows a mouthful of food, and takes another sip of his drink. "I guess. But, Bea–"

"I've loved every character I've even written. I've shouted at them and laughed at them, I've cried for them. And I've missed them when their story finished. And yeah, obviously this went a long way beyond that—way deeper than the affection I have for Tallulah, for instance. So, yeah … it's a little extreme, but–" I shrug.

Jake picks his napkin up and wipes his mouth. "I hear you. I mean, I don't _get_ it, but you're almost making sense."

I poke my tongue out at him and pick up my fork, turning my attention to the risotto in front of me.

"I still want this," he says, gesturing at the papers.

My fork stills midair as I blink at him. "What?"

"I still want to publish it. Now, I understand if you want to change the names, or publish under a nom de plume, but I'm serious. I want–" he taps the papers with his forefinger "–this. And Maria's only seen a few fragments, but she's sold, too."

I set the fork back down, the tines still bearing their load of pearly rice. "No way."

Jake sighs, rubbing a hand against his forehead. He looks at me, lips pursed. There's something calculating in his regard, like he expected my reaction and is wondering what it will take to get me to change my mind.

"Listen, Bea. I don't go in much for romances, and you know I've always pushed you on the YA stuff, but I'm serious, I want this."

"No, Jake. I – I can't."

"Why not?"

"Why not?" I shift in my seat, reaching for my glass. "I mean, you just told me it was really awkward to read." I take a sip of soda. "I just – I mean, why would you _want_ to publish it, then?"

Jake frowns at his steak as he cuts off a piece. "I guess – it was awkward for me because I recognized you in it. Anyone who doesn't know you—obviously, that's not going to be a problem."

He chews his food, swallows, then points his knife at me. "You have a bunch of ways you can go with this, Bea. You can just leave it as is. You've got good characters, an engaging story. Or you can change the names and stuff, but essentially just leave it as it is."

I shrug. "I guess."

"Or—and I haven't run this by Maria yet, it's just occurred to me now—you _could_ go back and write around the story. There were a bunch of notes you left in there that make more sense now that I know what you were doing—having this relationship with Edward."

He raises a hand at my frown. "Let me finish."

He waits for me to nod before he continues. "So, you could actually turn it into a sort of psychological exploration of writing and the writer."

I'm shaking my head before he finishes. "No. Absolutely not."

He shrugs, like he doesn't care. "I didn't think you'd go for that. And that's fine. But I still want you to think about letting us publish this novel."

I pick up my fork, sighing. "I'll think about it." I'm not sure I will, but it's enough to earn me half a smile and a nod.

"Good. I'll be in touch."

* * *

**A/N: Hi, lovelies. I'd love it if you'd share your thoughts with me. (I haven't gotten to review replies yet, I know, and I'm so sorry.)**

**Tam is the greatest, bestest editor, beta, cheerleader, ledge-talker-offer and friend in this universe.**

**Love, Shell x**


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

* * *

"_All good books are alike in that they are truer than if they had really happened and after you are finished reading one you will feel that all that happened to you and afterwards it all belongs to you; the good and the bad, the ecstasy, the remorse and sorrow, the people and the places and how the weather was. If you can get so that you can give that to people, then you are a writer." Ernest Hemingway_

* * *

In spite of myself, I'm still thinking about Jacob's enthusiasm for Edward and Isabella's story—novel, I guess—as I drive across town a week later.

With the wiper blades swishing and squeaking their steady rhythm, my mind is ticking over, wondering if I could do it—if I could share this story with the general public.

My initial reaction is born of the twisting and fluttering in my stomach, the strange nervousness that comes with thinking about anyone reading a story that is so close to me, that is so intensely personal. In fact, it's so personal that I wonder if it's even of any value to anyone else. What could a reader possibly gain from it?

I'm tapping my fingers on the wheel, waiting for the red light to become green, when I realize I'm traveling behind an ambulance. I smile at the symbol painted—or stickered or however they put it there these days—on the back.

My gaze traces the curvy snake twisting around its rod, my smile slips into a frown, as facts and figures regarding childhood cancer, and child protection legislation, policies and services, and information about dealing with grief and bereavement, all begin to tumble through my mind.

Maybe there is some value to this novel.

I remember Edward's words when I baulked at writing Garrett's death. He said, "The people who read your books, they know that pain. They do. All too intimately. And that's why you have to—why you need to write this."

Even then, was there some part of me that was preparing to share it? If I'd written this story solely for myself, then surely it wouldn't matter whether people could relate to it, whether they were familiar with grief and loss, whether they could empathize with Peter, Edward and Isabella.

Still, I recoil against the idea of anyone reading so much of it, of having that much access to something so intimate, so painfully private.

But obviously, on some level, my subconscious was preparing me to share it.

How, though? Should I rewrite it? Change the names? Cut out some of the scenes that I hold too close?

I shake my head, trying to slow the wild oscillation of my thoughts. I know I'm never completely objective about my writing, even about any of the novels I write with the intention of publishing. Even in the stories I intend to share, I know there are parts of me hidden in the words. But _this_ one, a story I've lived?

_Jacob is objective_. Sort of. He knows good writing, and he knows what will sell, and he knows those things don't necessarily go hand in hand. But if he wants it—maybe there's something in it that will resonate with people.

I'm no closer to making a decision when I pull into my driveway, my car loaded with groceries. And perhaps the fact I haven't already disregarded the idea, told Jacob "thanks, but no thanks," is telling enough.

* * *

After a few weeks of constant rain, the downpour eases and then dries up, but the overcast weather lingers yet, grey clouds smothering the sky in this usually sunny corner of the world.

I'm standing on the beach in the early morning, a few weeks before my parents are due to fly out of state. The occasional shiver crawls up my spine when a gust of wind wraps around me. The ocean's breath has become bitter and cold, and I'm missing the warmth of Edward's presence.

"I miss you." I say it out loud, but he doesn't answer. The cruel breeze laughs across the sand, needling me. I won't find him here, in this cold, grey place. I can't even imagine him, hands in pockets, hood up against the wind.

He was always with me in the sun.

I scowl up at the clouds, the dark smudges that insulate the earth. I can see the slightest lightening in the gloom of the eastern sky. That's where the sun is, where it should be pushing through, heralding the morning, warming my skin and returning Edward to me.

_The sun._

Desperation drives me, and I run back up the beach and into the house, unconcerned by the sand spilling across the floors with each step I take. I grab up my keys and wallet and hurl myself into my car.

I hit the road, heading south, chasing warmer weather and bluer skies.

The sun starts to peek out from behind her curtain of clouds on the other side of Los Angeles, and by the time I've passed Anaheim, she's burned them away—the sky is a bright, sapphire blue. Windows down, the breeze pours into the car, whipping my hair around. I push it out of my face, grinning as I feel the rays beginning to warm my face and arms.

Sunglasses on, the coast flashes past as I keep going. _Just a little farther_, I think. I'm so convinced he will come to me at any moment. I can feel my left arm burning as my elbow rests on the windowsill, and I'm sure the heat of his kisses and the breezy whisper of his voice will find me soon.

I'm rapidly approaching the Mexican border when I finally admit the truth to myself.

He is gone.

He won't come back. No matter how far south I drive, no matter how bright the sun shines, no matter how warm my skin burns. He promised to stay until the last word was written, and he did. I wrote us our happily ever after, I told our tale.

The story is finished, and I'm staring at the back cover.

Instead of making a U-turn and heading home, I pull off the I-5, taking the exit for La Jolla. Disappointment seeps through me, icy cold, chasing away my just-found warmth.

After traveling at highway speeds, it feels like I'm crawling as I follow the roads through the affluent suburb, heading for the sea. At Windensea Beach, I park and climb out of the car, making my way down onto the sand.

It's cooler here, the sun is bright but the breeze is stiff and the surf is rough. Spray from the pounding waves is whipped across the beach by the wind. Digging my toes into the sand, I shiver a little as I watch the ocean crash against the shore.

"He's gone." I say it out loud, as if giving it voice will make it easier to accept.

My mind tumbles around, like a surfer thrown from a wave trying to find the surface.

He's gone. But was he ever really here?

I start to pace the length of the beach, partly in an effort to keep warm, partly in response to the questions that are unsettling me. My hair tangles around me as the wind torments and teases. I check my wrists for a hair tie, but come up empty. I sigh and stop fighting it, letting the wind blow the strands where it will, and refocusing my thoughts.

Edward wasn't real. I _let_ myself indulge in the fantasy. I let my imaginary love affair consume me, for a time. But now that story has been told. The End. Happily Ever After. And they rode off into the sunset together.

An intricately imagined love affair.

I shake my head, my eyes drifting across the sea, watching the wind blow curls of white foam across its surface.

Why did it _feel _so real, when it was all in my head?

The beach seems to tilt, the ground beneath me shifting as a long-ago-read scene slams into my mind.

I think of Harry and Dumbledore standing in Kings Cross Station, and Harry asking a most definitely dead Dumbledore if their strange conversation was real or only happening in his head. The old wizard's answer rings in my ears, like he's speaking beside me.

_"Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?"_

I don't realize I've tripped until I feel the sand under my knees and a seashell digging into the palm of my left hand. I breathe deep, flexing my fingers, digging the tips into the grains for a moment, before I stand up again, shaking my head like one who has spent too long underwater.

I turn on my heel and start to walk back the way I came. The wind is now rushing at me head-on, sweeping my hair behind me and misting salt water across my face.

It happened only in my head, but why should that mean it wasn't—in some sense—real?

_Edward_ was not real. He was neither corporeal, nor was he some spirit or spectre haunting me. But _something_ of him really existed in my imagination, and it has had a real, measurable impact on me. This relationship, this affair of the mind, it was fictitious—but his fingerprints are all over me. I can feel their imprint on my soul.

I think about the haughty words I spoke to Eric a few months ago. I was paraphrasing Morgan, who said, "A book is the only place in which you can examine a fragile thought without breaking it, or explore an explosive idea without fear it will go off in your face."

In the words of my story—Isabella and Edward's, both on and off the page—I have been able to examine not just ideas and thoughts, but myself.

In many ways, before him, I was still a child. I was being carried along the easy currents of life, I'd never been forced to deal with hardship, loss, or grief—my own or anyone else's. My life was sheltered and easy, and it made me complacent and selfish.

Drawing level with where my car is parked, I walk back up the beach a little, away from the water's edge. Sitting down, legs crossed, I pick up a handful of soft, dry sand, and let it trickle out between my fingers.

As I watch the sea rage, tossing jagged beams of light of its choppy surface, understanding and contentment steal over me. I don't notice until they've settled in my veins, spreading through me like the antidote to emptiness' poison.

I'm okay without him.

* * *

The sun is sinking below the horizon, casting red and purple light across the western sky. My hands sit at ten and two on the steering wheel, and Angus and Julia are crooning softly, just audible over the steady hum of the engine.

One final piece of understanding fits into place, and seeing the complete picture causes my breath to catch in my throat and my knuckles to whiten as they grip the wheel.

Yes, Edward was a figment of my imagination. A peculiar manifestation of my subconscious, a vehicle that allowed me to explore and grow, without getting my heart broken. Our relationship gave me comfort and strength, it challenged me, it taught me to compromise, it forced me to face some of the scariest and hardest questions life will throw at me. But ultimately, he was a part of me.

And just as he never truly existed, he is not really gone.

He was—is—a part of me.

With Edward, I felt whole and complete. But that wholeness, that completion, that wasn't because of him. The relationship we had was not a Jerry Maguire "You complete me" kind of deal. And if that's the case, then I do not lack something without him. I do not lack something without another person.

The warmth of sunshine on my skin, the blue-green of the sea on a clear day, the gentle whisper of the summer breeze—these things will always remind me of Edward. They'll bring the comfort, the secure feeling of being loved. But I don't _need_ him—or anyone else.

I am complete without a complement.

* * *

"No fucking way. Your Mom made these?"

I shrug, smiling. "Yeah, she did. She made this as well." I hold out my arms to show her the cardigan I'm wearing.

"That's epic, Bea. Tell her thanks so much." She holds up the little booties and beanie, then spreads the little sweater over her belly. Her smile is huge and a little sappy, and I know she's imagining their peanut wearing the knitted clothes.

"I will. She'll be really glad you like them."

"When do your folks leave?"

"Uh, two weeks, I think."

Em nods. "Your Mom giving you a hard time still?"

"Ugh, she's driving me fu– uh, freaking crazy." I giggle as I correct myself—Liam has been chastising both Emily and me for our foul language, which he claims their baby can hear and will learn.

Em waves me off, rolling her eyes towards the kitchen where Liam is fixing the tacos she started demanding ten minutes ago. "Why's that? She just jonesing for grandkids?" She looks between the tiny clothes and me.

"That, too. But–" I run my fingers through the bangs I'm still not used to, straightening them over my forehead "–she ran into Jasper somewhere, and he and Alice have broken up."

"So?"

"So, she's all, 'You guys were so good together,' and 'Maybe you should just give him a call—see that he's doing okay.'"

"Subtle." Em rubs her stomach and burps loudly. "Sorry. So, did you tell her to shove it?"

I sigh. "No, I just told her I didn't think I had anything to say to him."

Emily looks at me closely, one hand still circling her belly, which occasionally jerks visibly as their baby kicks or punches or turns a freaking somersault. "So you don't, you know – I mean, there's no what ifs for you?"

I pause, considering. "Actually, no. None. I mean, it's starting to occur to me that even though he wanted kids, and I wasn't ready for them, in many ways he's still really immature. And I – I guess I wasn't particularly mature either, when we were together. We just couldn't—_wouldn't_—compromise. I wanted him to understand how important writing was to me, he wanted my attention, and neither of us would budge."

"And you think you've changed?" I know from Em's tone that she doesn't doubt me, she's just trying to understand.

I twist my fingers together, and my small smile can't be suppressed. "I've just been thinking about relationships a lot—for a story, you know?"

"Uh-huh."

"I don't know, I guess … to write it, I've been thinking a lot about what a healthy, mature relationship looks like. Compromise and good communication, and what it means to support someone you love through difficult times—what it meant to juggle work and family and friendships."

Em frowns, tipping her head as she looks at me. "You think you can learn stuff through writing? I mean – I'm not trying to be a bitch … just, writing something – it's different from living it."

"No, I understand." I lean forward and pat her knee, chuckling as her belly shakes with her baby's tumbling. "And yeah, of course it's not the same. But, yeah, I do think I learn through writing – same as I learn through reading, you know?"

Edward let me explore questions and aspects of life that I either hadn't encountered or was too insecure to really address. He provided a way I could navigate those questions, and learn without getting my heart broken. He gave me a safe place to explore relationships, and loss and suffering and pain. Hell, I even know more about what I like sexually than I did when I had a man in my bed every night.

Emily pulls my thoughts away from Edward. "What – like researching and stuff?"

"That, too. But I mean, when you read a novel … you meet all these characters, right? And their experience isn't yours – well, sometimes it is, but often it's not. But books—film, art, whatever—they let you see different worlds, different viewpoints, different understandings, yes? You empathize with characters, even though you don't necessarily _know_ what they're going through. You're – I guess, it opens your mind."

I shake my head, tucking my hair behind my ear. "I mean, that's why we write and make films and paint and write poetry, isn't it? Because we've got something to say, a story to tell? We want to express it, we want people to understand us …" I shrug. "I don't know. I'm probably not making sense."

"No, I think I get you. I mean, it's _not_ the same as living it. But I get it. I've read stuff and yeah, it's opened my mind. I think. Like, uh, _To Kill a Mockingbird_, or that one – something about a dog at nighttime–"

"_The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time_?"

She nods. "Yeah, that one."

"Right. So, yeah, those are books that have a big impact on a lot of people. But then, there are others where the impact is more – subtle, maybe. Maybe it's unconscious, even. A minor character that you see yourself in, a piece of advice you've been given. Or, I guess, it can be as simple as one sentence that makes you look at a sunset differently."

"And that happens when you're writing?"

"Kind of. The characters I write—they don't always do what I would do, or think the way I would. Often, they … they take on this peculiar life of their own and they direct the action where they will it. And that forces me to look at things through their eyes–"

Emily smiles. "Is that weird? Writing a character doing something that you're thinking 'Don't do it!' about. Or having to write something you don't actually agree with."

I frown. "I don't – not weird, no. It often catches me by surprise, though. I read back over something and it's like … where did that come from? I mean, I wrote it, didn't I? So, those words came from somewhere inside me." I reach for my half-empty beer. Em pouts while she watches me drink it, and I chuckle as I set it back on the coffee table. "Self-reflection is always a good thing, you know?"

"Sure."

We sit in easy-silence for a few moments.

"Why was I talking about this?"

Em squints, trying to look back through our conversation to its start. "Um … Jasper. Your Mom."

"Right." Tugging the sleeves of my sweater over my hands, I fold my arms. "Oh. Yeah, so anyway. I think, with this latest story I've been writing, I've had to think a lot about how relationships should work. And, yeah – I think it's changed me."

Em considers me, looking at me closely like she might be able to see the changes I'm talking about. "You seem happier. Lighter."

I raise my eyebrows, smirking at her.

She rolls her eyes. "Not like that, dummy."

I giggle. "I know. I feel it, too."

"And you don't think Jasper might have changed, too?"

"He might have." I shrug. "But that chapter of my life is finished." _And so is Edward's. _

"That's fair enough. You'll find someone. You're still young."

"Maybe."

"Bea–" She breaks off, her brow creased, her blue eyes shining with concern.

I smile to reassure her. "It's – I might, of course. Hell, I probably will. But I've just been thinking, you know … I don't _need_ a significant other–"

"Of course you don't." Em tugs on the ends of my hair. They're _other_. You don't need to define yourself by whether or not there's someone significant in your life."

"This is what I've realized. Mom is so concerned about me ending up alone, left on the shelf or whatever. But … even if I do–" I raise a hand when Em opens her mouth. "_Even if I do_—I'm not saying I will. But even if I do—I have good friends and family. I'm not … _less_. I'm not deficient on my own."

She snorts. "Well, duh." She smiles, her finger still curled around the lengths of my hair. "Bea, I love Liam with everything I am and everything I have. But do I _need_ him? Can I exist without him? I'd rather not. I mean, I pray that I'll never have to. But I could."

I nod, smiling as the man in question walks back into their living room, bearing a tray of tacos.

Emily squirms her heavy body until she's sitting upright, her smile fading slightly when she sees the bottle of lemonade beside the two beers. "Fuckers. That's so not fair." She sighs and addresses her belly. "Time for you to get outta there. Momma's stinging for a beer."

* * *

It's nearing twilight when I leave Em and Liam's, walking home by way of the beach. The sand is cool and smooth under my toes, and the waves are quiet as they tug at the shoreline. Lavender and gold light dances on the smooth surface of the ocean, and even the distant screech of seagulls seems beautiful.

I pause, watching as a purple-pink cloud slides across the edge of the sky, blinking as the sun blinds me momentarily. Another cloud moves across the horizon, hiding the sun's face, taking the light with it. The warmth, however, remains on my skin, the heat of a lingering kiss pressed to my forehead.

With a smile on my lips, and a light that could match the sun's shining inside me, warming my heart, my eyes drop to the sand. I watch the steady progress of my feet as I make my way home, my footprints disappearing into the hundreds of other paths stamped onto the shore.

* * *

... ... ...

* * *

**A/N: I really have no idea what to say right now ...**

**But thank you. Thank you, all of you, for reading and reviewing and tweeting and PMing and following and favouriting and gosh. Thank you.**

**MissWinkles, dreaminginnorweigen, moirae, IReenH, Pagly - thank you for the WCs and the pretty words and the laughs and the support. You all amaze and inspire me, constantly.**

**Tam, you were there when I said "I'm going to write a story about a writer who falls in love with one of her own characters," and you were still with me when I asked you if Americans have Plasticine, and said "omg. You know what this means? It's done." Thank you, loveliest love. Thank you. **

**Love, Shell x**


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